


Du Fortenar Ein Som Meg

by Natteravn



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ordinary People, Caretaking, Coming Out, Homophobia, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-01 08:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natteravn/pseuds/Natteravn
Summary: Marc’s never considered himself a bad driver, but it only takes a single moment to crash into a bloke on a bike – one that’s going to need a bit more care than just a quick drive to the emergency room.AnI hit you with my car and was the only one to visit you in the hospital, this is sort of awkward, are you okay?AU.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khalehla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalehla/gifts).



> I was looking through lists of AUs for inspiration for Khalehla’s birthday fic when this one in particular caught my eye. I thought it was going to be something quick and easy in the 6-7k range, but as always, you can never tell in advance how long a fic is going to end up, and a simple one shot turned into a story of ten chapters.
> 
> The title is taken from the Norwegian song with the same name by Daniel Kvammen, meaning “you deserve someone like me” – the title of a cocky, confident rap song, but with a melody and lyrics which suggest quite the opposite.
> 
> \---
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](https://tyskerunge.tumblr.com) if you want to get in touch with me outside of AO3.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Nothing written in my fanfictions is real – I have made absolutely everything up. These persons belong exclusively to themselves, and when I write about them, I see them as _characters based on the real persons_ , not the actual alive and breathing people. I make no profit from my writing, and I do not mean to offend or harass anyone with my works.

Marc curses himself for the hundredth time in ten minutes as he parks his parents’ car outside the ER, steps out and rushes over to the passenger side to help – what was his name again? – the poor bloke out.

“Do you need a hand with the seatbelt?” he asks, pressing his lips together, trying his best to look apologetic. It’s probably pathetic – no, it _is_ pathetic, judging by the scowl the other throws at him, but he can’t help it. This is all his fault, he was the one who forgot to put the station wagon in reverse _again_ when leaving the public car park, timing the car’s leap forward perfectly with the now injured man in the passenger seat as said man passed on his bike.

Who’s definitely favouring his right hand right now, holding his left high, as he tries to unlock the seatbelt next to his left hip.

“I’m good,” the man barks out as the seatbelt springs loose, and swings his long legs out of the car. “Thanks for the ride, you can leave now.”

“Are you nuts?” Marc blurts out. “You just flew off your bike without a helmet on, and I’m to blame for it. I’m not leaving before I know you’re alright. Besides, people shouldn’t be left alone if they have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion–”

“You aren’t qualified to evaluate that.”

“– and you’ve already driven me here.” The bloke throws a quick glance at the bike in the back, where Marc’s laid down the seats to make room for it. “You’ve more than made up for it. If you’ll let me take out the bike, I’ll let you get back to your party.”

Marc frowns, casting a quick glance at his own clothes. Right. He’d forgotten how dressed up he is, clean shaven, freshly ironed shirt and his nicest, most expensive jeans. He suppresses a sigh.

“It’s really no trouble, okay? Honestly, I was looking for a way to get out of it anyway, and this…” Marc shrugs. “Can’t be much worse, can it?”

The bloke scoffs.

“It’s not gonna be much better, either.”

He shoves the door shut with his right hand and probably means to turn around when he suddenly sways on his feet. Marc steps forward instinctively to steady him, grabbing him by the sides with both hands. A hand – the right, uninjured one – lands on his chest.

“Yeah, no, I’m not letting you go in there on your own when you’re like this,” Marc says in his most confident, authoritative voice – not one he’s perfected, exactly, but it’ll just have to do. “Let me worry about me. You focus on yourself. Come on.”

The bloke looks away, blue eyes sweeping over the near empty car park, jaw set tight. For a brief moment, he clenches his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Fine,” he forces out, flinching at his own words, and pushes Marc off of him.

With a quick press of his finger, Marc locks the car and follows the other into the building.

It’s late afternoon on a Saturday, and as the car park, the waiting room is as good as empty. Apart from them, there are two young women with a three-year-old, and some bloke who looks even worse than Marc’s victim. Marc’s both surprised and relieved; maybe they won’t have to wait for as long as he feared.

He keeps his distance as the other bloke talks to the receptionist, but he still catches most of their conversation.

_Your name?_

_Bernd Leno._

Bernd. Yes. Don’t forget it again, it’d be embarrassing to have to ask.

_Date of birth?_

_Fourth of March, ninety-two._

Not even two months older than Marc then, who would’ve thought.

_And what seems to be the problem?_

_My hand, mostly. Fell off a bike, think I smashed it up a bit._

_When was this?_

_Ten, fifteen minutes ago._

_Well, it doesn’t look swollen…_

_My fingers feel numb. I can’t make a fist. I can’t twist my hand to look at my own palm._

_Right. We’ll get someone to have a look at it. Please take a seat._

Marc sends Bernd an easy smile when he turns back around. Bernd has a look on his face that suggests he just wants to roll his eyes at him.

“You can leave, you know,” he says as he eases himself down on a chair in one corner of the waiting room, running his good hand over his close-cropped, blonde hair. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Do you have anyone else who can be with you?” Marc asks instead, sitting down on the chair beside Bernd’s.

Bernd clenches his teeth again.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

They sit there in silence as the women with the kid are called up, then the other bruised man, and less than a minute later,

“Herr Leno?”

Bernd gets to his feet, and Marc automatically follows. The doctor greets Bernd with a handshake, then raises her eyebrow at Marc.

“Your brother?” she asks Bernd.

“No, he’s–” Bernd begins, throwing Marc a look over his shoulder and making a weird gesture. “He’s–”

“I’m the jerk who’s to blame that he’s here,” Marc blurts out.

The doctor raises both eyebrows this time. “Right. Well. You should probably wait here, then.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Bernd squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. He’s not gonna let up anyway, he might as well come.”

“As long as you’re okay with that?”

Bernd throws Marc another glance. “Sure. Might do him good to see what damage he’s caused, prevent him from doing it again.” And then he proceeds to grin at the doctor, glancing back at Marc just long enough for Marc to catch a glimpse of it as well.

“Suit yourself. Come, it’s this way.”

~*~

Marc sits in a corner twisting his thumbs while the doctor examines Bernd. There’s a large, dusty bruise on his elbow that Marc hadn’t even noticed, and when Bernd admits to a dull pain in one knee, his loose cargos are pulled up to reveal a rather nasty burn wound. The bruise on his chin is thankfully only superficial.

“Were you wearing a helmet?” the doctor asks as she cleans and patches up the wounds.

“… no.”

She sends Bernd a pointed look.

“It wasn’t a, uh, planned ride. I… borrowed my cousin’s bike rather spontaneously.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“Not that I know of. Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“No.”

Marc’s tempted to mention the swaying in the car park, but it’s not up to him to question how Bernd feels.

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

“Having any problems with orientation?”

“Only the ones that come from not knowing the city.”

The doctor sends Bernd a pointed look, her lips curling almost unwillingly into a half smirk.

“Your ribs feel fine?”

“Yep.”

She turns to his hand then, and Marc aches in sympathy as she twists the wrist to look at the palm, causing Bernd to tense and tears to well up in his eyes.

“That bad?”

“… Yeah.”

“Did you land on it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to register how I landed.”

“Can you make a fist for me?”

Bernd’s fingers barely even twitch.

“I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.”

The doctor frowns, reaching out to stroke her fingers over his left. “Do you feel this?”

“Yes.”

“And how does it feel,” – she reaches out to stroke his right fingers simultaneously – “compared to this?”

“Doesn’t feel quite the same on the left. Feels… less.”

The doctor nods.

“I’ll send you over to Radiology, have them do an x-ray of it. The waiting time shouldn’t be too bad this time of day. Do you know where it is?”

Bernd looks to Marc then, but Marc can only shrug in response. Granted, he’s been here a dozen times – mostly to get the keys from his mum if he had forgotten his own; lastly with Daniela to visit her grandmother – but that sure doesn’t mean that he knows his way around.

“No,” Bernd says, turning back to the doctor.

“Come with me then, I’ll point you in the right direction.”

~*~

She’s right, they don’t have to wait too long, but that doesn’t mean it’s over fast. After the x-ray and another while of waiting to see a doctor in the orthopaedic department, whom Bernd decides to see alone, he comes back out with a resigned look on his face.

“I need to get back to Radiology. The x-ray wasn’t enough, they need to do a CT.”

“Shit?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, man.”

Marc follows him back down the hallway like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him, but hesitates when Bernd sits down outside the labs and scowls up at him.

“What?”

“Why are you still around?”

“You’re not done here yet.”

Bernd sighs, rubbing his good hand over his eyes.

“Look–” he begins, pauses, frowns up at Marc. “Wait, what was your name again?”

“Marc-André.”

Bernd snorts. “What the hell kind of combination is that?”

Marc’s so used to that reaction that he doesn’t even register it until after he’s said, “Most people just call me Marc.”

“Marc. Right.” Another sigh. “Look, Marc, I appreciate the effort, but I’ll be fine on my own. Okay? We’ve been here for well over an hour already, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be done anytime soon, so you should get home or to that party or wherever you’d rather be right now. Just make sure to leave the bike behind, and you’re free to go.”

Marc presses his lips together and sits down anyway, ignoring the dramatic manner in which Bernd rolls his eyes.

“Jesus…”

“It’s the least I can do after running you down like that.”

Bernd groans. “If you’re doing this just so I won’t press charges, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I have no interest in talking to the cops.”

“What? No!” Marc stares in disbelief. “The thought didn’t even cross my mind!”

“Then what?”

“Look, Bernd, you’re clearly not from here, and I take it you’ve got no family to call–”

“Wrong, I do.”

“Then I take it there’s a reason you haven’t.”

Bernd clenches his teeth.

“Right,” Marc says, nodding to himself. “Whatever it is, it’s not up to me to judge and I’ve got no interest in prying. But being in a hospital for several hours in a foreign city all on your own with no one to call? That has to suck, man. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be alone in a situation like that. I get that it sucks that you can’t choose who you’d rather have with you, but unless you can convince me that you _absolutely won’t_ feel miserable being stuck here alone on a Saturday evening, I’m not going to leave.”

Bernd sends him a long, illegible look. Then, with another sigh, he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“Doubt I’ll manage to convince you,” he says eventually, voice low and without much strength.

Just then, Bernd is called up for the CT, and he sends Marc a tight smile that can barely be classified as such as he gets up from his chair.

~*~

“So.”

“So.”

They’ve been back at Orthopaedic for a while now, once again waiting for the doctor. Marc is twisting his thumbs again and Bernd seems to have somehow accepted the fact that he won’t go away.

“You’re from here?” Bernd asks.

“Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m studying in Düsseldorf. _Lehramt_.”

“Gonna be a teacher?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Which subjects?”

“English, Spanish and PE.”

“Not bad,” Bernd acknowledges with a nod. “You speak Spanish then?”

“Well enough to communicate. And teach some day, hopefully.”

“Cool.”

“Thanks,” Marc says, shoulders raising automatically in anticipation for a question that’s bound to come any second now.

Except it doesn’t.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Marc shakes his head at his own silliness. “I just… I don’t know, expected the ‘come on, say something in Spanish’ request that everyone seems so fond of.”

Bernd snorts. “Nah, mate, I know how annoying that is.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup.”

“Which foreign language do you speak?”

“Russian.” Bernd just waves it off when Marc’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “‘s not as impressive as it sounds. My family’s Russian German, moved here before I was born.”

“But you speak it anyway?”

“My older brother’s better. I’ve picked up a few bits and pieces over the years, but my understanding’s better than speaking and writing.”

“That’s generally how it goes, though. You’re able to understand a lot more than you’re able to produce.”

“I guess. You’re the student here, I’m gonna take your word for it.”

“So how well do you speak it?”

“What was it you called it again? ‘Well enough to communicate’? Something like that. Just don’t ask for a demonstration.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Marc assures him.

A pause follows, and though their silent moments are still awkward, it’s not nearly as awkward as it was earlier.

“So what are you doing in Mönchengladbach on a Saturday night?” Bernd asks at one point. “I thought Düsseldorf would be cooler.”

Marc snickers. “Classes just ended. Some mates from school thought it’d be cool to have a little get-together now that so many have the chance to be here.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to go.”

Marc shrugs. “I was rather indifferent to the whole thing. I hadn’t made any plans and thought what the hell, might as well, since I couldn’t come up with any good excuses at the time.”

“And you’re not just saying this to make me feel better about spoiling it for you?”

“Nope. This is the most action I’ve seen in ages.”

Bernd snorts.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Same questions you asked me – where do you live, what do you do?”

“Stuttgart. Construction.”

“Cool.”

“You think? I thought you students and academics looked down upon us hard workers.”

“Not at all, mate. I think it’s cool. Useful. I’m not much of a handyman myself and I feel just as stupid every time I can’t get the washing machine to work or the sink’s clogged. Couldn’t have built a thing no matter how good instructions I got.”

“Not even IKEA?”

Marc snorts. “True, IKEA I can handle, but that still doesn’t speak highly of my skill level.”

For the first time, Bernd actually smiles, a real smile, not like the cheeky half-grins.

The door to the doctor’s office opens.

“Herr Leno?”

“See you in a bit,” Bernd throws in Marc’s direction as he gets up and follows the doctor.

~*~

It takes a while for Bernd to get back this time, and when he finally does, the doctor’s with him and his arm’s been laid in a plaster cast.

“Could you give me two seconds, please?” Bernd asks the doctor – who gives him a quick nod – then he turns to Marc.

“What’s going on?”

“They want to keep me overnight. Something about the chances of a concussion, blah blah, and I have no place to go anyway. But–”

“And your hand?”

“Some complicated fracture, they’re gonna operate it on Monday. But–”

“They _what_ now?” Marc’s mouth falls open. Shit, it was all just an accident, a stupid mistake, one careless moment, and now…

“Look, I’ll tell you all about it if you’re stupid enough to come by later, alright? Right now, I kinda have a favour to ask.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“You know the bike? My cousin’s? It’s probably best if he gets it back. If you could drive to this place and just drop it off…”

“Yeah, I guess. Sure.”

Bernd must’ve noticed Marc’s slight hesitation, because he adds, “It’s not his house, don’t worry. It’s some sort of banquet facility, close to where we collided. Fuck, I can’t remember the name, but…”

“No worries, I think I know the one.”

“Great. Just place it outside and he won’t notice it’s been gone.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you.”

Then he follows the doctor before Marc gets the chance to protest that he’s the one making up for putting Bernd in this position in the first place.

~*~

Marc finds the place easily enough. Even in the car he can hear music and the buzz of voices coming from the building, the smell of alcohol and some finer dinner thick in the air. Two men are standing outside the main door smoking, and Marc curses himself for his timing.

But he’s already parked the car, so instead of sitting there waiting like some creep, he decides to head over to the grocery store close by. If Bernd has to stay in the hospital until at least Monday, he’s going to need some things.

Marc’s phone buzzes in his pocket as he enters the store. He has just the time to register that it’s Daniela before he’s picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, Marc!” Dani’s excited voice greets him, accompanied by some heavy beats and high-pitched laughter in the background. “Where are you?”

“At the store.”

“Still?!”

“No, er… Something came up and I had to go back.”

“‘Something came up’? We started over an hour ago!”

“Yeah, I know, but this… Well.”

Marc grabs himself a basket and heads for the aisle of toiletries.

“Marc?” And now the background noise starts to fade, and he hears the dull sound of a door closing. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine, really. Just, uh, you know my parents’ station wagon?”

“Oh God, don’t tell me you whacked it because you forgot to put it in reverse a _gain_.”

“No, I… sortofhitthisblokeonabike because I forgot to put it in reverse again.”

“You _what_?”

“Yeah.”

“Marc, Jesus…”

“Yeah. So I had to bring him to the hospital and he’s not from Mönchengladbach so they’re going to keep him there over the weekend, so now I’m at the store to get him some basics.”

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Dani says, actually sounding on the verge to do both. “I’ve told you so many times–”

“I know, I know!”

“So now what, you’re ditching us for some random dude?”

“Basically. I mean, it _is_ my fault that he’s stuck in the hospital now.”

“It’s still not your responsibility once you’ve brought him there.”

“He doesn’t have family that can be with him.”

“I’m sure they’re on their way–”

“They’re not.”

“Why, is he sixty-something and fully capable of taking care of himself?”

“No, twenty-six.”

And that’s definitely a muffled snort sounding over the line.

“Cute?”

“What? No!” Marc picks up a toothbrush and studies it. “No, this is nothing like… Whatever it is that you’re imagining. Look, I landed him there, and he looked like he could need the support.”

“Was he asking for it?”

“No. But you know the type – too proud and stubborn. Pretends not to care. Thinks that they can make do without family and support in their lives. Sees the fact that they’re admitted to hospital and no one comes to visit as proof that nobody cares, even when they haven’t informed anyone.”

Now Dani full-on laughs. “Can’t say I’ve met many like that, but you sure seem to know what you’re talking about!”

“Hey!” A tube of toothpaste joins the toothbrush in the basket, and Marc heads for the newsstand.

“And now what, you’re going to save him from that miserable state?”

“Dani, come on. I’m just trying to make up for the damage I caused. It has nothing to do with _him_.”

“So you’d do the exact same if it was a man in his sixties?”

“Yes.”

“And if it was a girl?”

Marc lets his eyes sweep over the newsstand, searching for a well-known title.

“Yes, only that I’d go for some fashion magazine instead of football.”

“Okay then,” – and he can almost feel Dani’s smile over the line – “I’ll hold you to it the next time you drive someone over.”

“Ha, ha.” He picks up a copy of the latest issue of _11 Freunde_ and places it carefully in the basket. Hopefully Bernd hasn’t read it already, he thinks, picking up the week’s _Kicker_ as well for good measure. “Trust me, I’ve learnt my lesson, it won’t happen again.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Whatever. Don’t you have a party to attend?” he asks as he rounds the corner of the snack shelf.

“Oh, thanks for reminding me! I thought the music and the voices were products of my own imagination. Thought I’d hit my head or something, but I can’t seem to recall…”

“Oh God, Dani, please stop.”

“Never. Anyway, have fun with this– uh, what’s his name?”

“Bernd,” Marc says as he picks up a bag of crisps. Sure, with that physique, Bernd looks like the type to pay attention to his diet, but if a forced hospital stay isn’t the perfect time for some comfort food, comfort food doesn’t exist.

Dani bursts out in a new round of laughter. “Are you absolutely certain he isn’t sixty?”

“Okay, I’m going to hang up now,” he counters, and spontaneously adds an ice-cold coke to the basket as he heads for the checkout, once again hoping that it’s not on Bernd’s list of don’ts and/or dislikes.

“Have fun with your Bernd,” Dani giggles and makes the unmistakable gesture of kissing noises.

Marc hangs up with a sigh and makes a mental note on never letting Daniela anywhere near Bernd. He’s embarrassed enough as it is.

The smoking men are gone when he comes back to the car park, and Marc praises himself lucky as he places the bag in the passenger seat. Quickly, before anyone else can come back out, he takes out the bike, and tries not to look guilty and misplaced as he wheels it over to the bicycle rack.

Hopefully Bernd’s cousin won’t notice any changes, Marc thinks as he places the bike next to a small, baby blue one.

He breathes out in relief as he steps away, only to almost jump out of his skin when he hears a door being pushed open and two high-pitched squeals following suit. For a moment, he freezes, not daring to turn around, and it’s only when he sees a shadow fall across the pavement from around the corner that he realises they opened another door.

Christ.

“Oh shit, a fag feels so fucking good right now,” a female voice says, just as the smell of smoke reaches Marc’s nostrils.

The other person snorts, and the woman laughs – short, sharp and loud.

“Pun not intended,” she adds and, by the sound of it, draws a deep breath of cigarette.

Marc had just recovered from his initial shock and was about to get back to his car, but the joke – certainly not lost on him – makes him hesitate.

“Speaking of,” another female voice says then, “you seen him since?”

“Nah. Guess he left.”

“Such a dramatic move.”

“Isn’t that what these queers are all about, though?”

“Let’s pray he stays away then. I’ve certainly had enough drama for today.”

They both laugh this time, and Marc curls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms.

“Oy, faggot!” a voice suddenly calls out, and Marc spins around. A dark-haired man, probably in his early thirties, is standing in the doorway, glaring at him from under bushy eyebrows. “The fuck are you still– _oh_. Uh.”

The man stops, hesitates, and Marc frowns.

“Sorry. Thought you were… Who are you?”

Marc thinks fast. The slur that was just thrown at him – the smoking women’s conversation – the nurse who thought he was Bernd’s brother…

And the bag of groceries in his car.

“Oh, I’m just some random bloke passing by from the store to my car.”

“Oh. Okay. Never mind, then.”

Marc sends him a quick nod, and starts walking away just as the man turns to go back inside, but then.

“Hey, if you were at the store, where are your bags?”

Dammit. Marc squeezes his eyes shut, sees the bags of beer that were originally for the party with Dani and their friends…

He turns back around with a big, cheeky grin and spreads his arms. “Hosting a big party tonight, had a whole load of bottles from my last party to recycle.” He pats his pocket for good measure and winks.

The man grins. “Have fun then. Don’t drink and drive.”

“You too,” Marc wishes him before heading towards his car, for good this time, throwing a quick, “And don’t insult the gays!” over his shoulder.

~*~

The visiting hours thankfully aren’t over when he comes back to the hospital. He asks for Bernd Leno at the reception, and is given a room number on one of the upper floors, as well as a heads-up that he doesn’t have more than half an hour.

Bernd actually seems surprised to see him when he enters. Positively, at first, then he seems to remember his own attitude, and turns away with a roll of his eyes.

“Jesus…”

“Hey.”

“I was joking before, you know. I didn’t expect you to come back.”

“It says a lot when I already know you well enough to believe you when you say it. One would think you’d know me just as well by now, but you clearly don’t, or else you’d known I’d be back.”

Bernd takes a moment to ponder. “Yeah, no, I couldn’t even make sense of half of that. Why are you even here?”

Marc pulls the chair next to the bed a little closer and sits down, letting the bag rest in his lap.

“Figured you wanted to know that the bike made it back to its owner without much fuss.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“And while I was there, I figured I’d get you a few things you might need.”

“Huh?”

“Here.”

Marc places the bag in Bernd’s lap.

“Wait, what now?”

“It’s standard procedure to bring something when you visit someone in the hospital. Didn’t you know?”

Bernd pulls at the bag with his right hand, enough to peek inside.

“There’s like, a bunch of stuff here?”

“You’re going to be here for a while, hopefully you’ll only be bored half the time.”

Bernd reaches into the bag and takes out the coke.

“Awesome.”

“I wasn’t sure if you preferred the sugary one or not.”

“Nah, this is great,” Bernd says, turning it in his hand. “At least this way I won’t be reminded of those traumatising Manuel Neuer commercials.”

Marc snickers and Bernd flashes him a bright grin – a real, genuine one – before placing the bottle on the table next to the bed.

“Speaking of,” Marc says, just as Bernd pulls out one of the two magazines, “I hope you’re into football.”

“‘Course I am. Are there any men in this country who aren’t?”

Marc shrugs. “I know plenty.”

“Don’t think I know any,” Bernd says and pulls out the other. “Christ, Marc, how bored do you think I’ll be?”

“Just wanted to be on the safe side in case you’d read one of them already.”

“That’s… awfully considerate.”

“You’re probably not aware, but it’s not every day I land someone in hospital. The least I can do is to make that stay as comfortable as possible.”

“You’ve more than made up for it already.”

“But you have no family here to visit you and bring you stuff.”

Bernd grows quiet for a moment as he lays the magazines next to the coke. “Wouldn’t want them here anyway,” he mutters, quietly, head dipping low. He sneaks his hand back into the bag and brings out the crisps, happy about it but still down after the mention of his family, judging by the not-quite-there smile he sends Marc and the low, soft-spoken ‘I love these’.

Marc smiles back in the same manner.

Therefore, it takes him by surprise when Bernd suddenly barks out a laugh and pulls out the last two items from the bag.

“Fucking hell, you really have thought of everything,” he says as he studies the toothpaste and the toothbrush.

“I figured you didn’t have yours on you.”

“Definitely not. Wow, I hadn’t even thought of this; I’m so glad I didn’t get the chance to. Thank you.”

“Of all the stuff, it’s the boring hygiene products that make you thank me?” Marc snickers.

“Hey, you’ve ever woken up after going to bed without brushing your teeth? Worst feeling there is. Feels like your mouth died, the taste won’t go away, and nothing tastes right for the rest of the day.” Bernd places the last two gifts on the table and squeezes the bag into a ball with his right hand. “Jokes aside though. Thank you for all of it. I, er…”

Bernd looks down, fiddles with the bag in his hand, seeming not to know what to do with it.

“You’re welcome,” Marc responds and holds out his hand. “I can take the bag for you, if you want.”

“Yeah.”

They fall silent for a moment, until Bernd reaches for the coke again and suddenly pauses in the middle of the movement.

“Uh…”

“Hm?”

Bernd looks from the bottle to Marc. “Could you?” he asks with a jerk of his head. “My other hand’s kinda… Well…”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

Bernd hands Marc the coke, going for the bag of crisps next. Before Marc’s had the chance to ask if he wants help with that one as well, Bernd’s pulled it open by the help of his teeth.

“I can see you’re not going to be entirely helpless with only one hand,” Marc says with a grin, and screws open the bottle.

“Of course not. If you don’t screw the cork back on too tightly, I think I’ll manage.”

Bernd lets the crisps rest in his lap and accepts the bottle as Marc hands it to him. He takes a few large gulps, then lets his head fall back against the pillows.

“Man. I haven’t had a proper coke in ages.”

“I can bring you beer tomorrow if you’d like,” Marc says, recalling the six-packs in the car – lukewarm and disgusting by now, but they’ll be fine again tomorrow after a night in the fridge.

“Really? You allowed to do that?”

“I’ll smuggle some in?”

“Am I even allowed to drink?”

“Unless you’re on some heavy painkillers, I guess one bottle can’t hurt,” Marc says, and fishes his phone out of his pocket to check the time. Shit, about time he got going before they came and kicked him out.

“Damn,” Bernd breathes out, leaning back to stare almost dreamingly up at the ceiling. “Maybe I should get people to run me down more often, with the service that comes along with it.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. They may not all be kind and considerate.”

“I really had luck, didn’t I?”

Marc’s about to respond something smart, cheeky, but when he looks up to meet Bernd’s eyes, the other bloke’s features aren’t flashing the cockiness he expected. Open, sincere eyes and the faint hint of a smile, nervous and thankful and shy all at once.

Marc swallows and forces himself not to read anything into it.

“A little luck doesn’t make it a total coincidence. And if it helps, I don’t think I’d do this much for just about anyone.”

Bernd doesn’t get the chance to respond, however, because just then, there’s a soft knock on the door and a nurse peeks inside.

“Gentlemen? Visiting hours will be over in a few minutes…”

“No worries,” Marc says and sends her a reassuring smile. “I was just about to leave. Won’t take long.”

She nods to them both, then closes the door again.

Marc turns to Bernd before Bernd gets the chance to ruin the moment. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

“Marc, really…”

“No, I want to. And I did say I’d smuggle you that beer. Anything else you might like?”

Bernd shrugs.

“Nothing?”

“Hard to know now what I may miss tomorrow, to be honest,” Bernd admits. “But, uh, what kind of phone do you have?”

“An iPhone.”

“The old or the new charger?”

“The new one. Why, do you want me to bring it?”

“If it’s not too much trouble? Just so that I can charge my phone while you’re here.”

“Of course. And if there’s nothing else, I’ll see if I can’t think of something. Or, better yet, just text me if there’s something you need.”

They exchange numbers, and say a quick goodbye, not wanting to push it with the time limit. As Marc puts his hand on the door handle, however, something comes to mind.

“Hey, Bernd?”

“Yeah?”

“Just, one thing. I, uh… want you to know that I understand that you have your reasons not to call your family and they’re totally valid, even though I don’t know them.”

He looks up to meet Bernd’s eyes, and Bernd nods, swallowing noticeably, not quite able to respond.

“I’m just so sorry you don’t have any parents you can call, because I’ve been there too, and it’s an experience I’ll forever wish I didn’t have. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, and certainly not a decent bloke like you.”

Sometimes, despite having reached his mid-twenties, Marc still feels like a kid when faced with the big, harsh world out there, and he’s always wondered if it’s visible on him when he does, or if people the same age feels the same way. When Bernd looks up then, disbelief and vulnerability and worry written all across his face, Marc doesn’t feel as alone with that experience anymore.

“Thank you,” is all Bernd manages to breathe out after a long moment of silence.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” comes the soft response.

“Don’t hesitate to call me if anything comes up.”

“I won’t.”

Only then does Marc leave, rest assured that Bernd really meant it this time.


	2. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the feedback on the first chapter! It makes me very happy to see that so many seem to want to follow this story.

Marc comes by the next day with that beer he promised, and after having plugged the charger in Bernd’s phone and left it in the room, they go out in the hospital garden to enjoy the weather and the not-quite-sure-if-forbidden beverage.

The sun is burning in the unbearable way Marc remembers from his exchange in Barcelona, so they find themselves a bench in the shadows of some birch trees. Wind ruffles the leaves as they sit down, momentarily cooling their hot skin. Marc pulls at the front of his t-shirt and wishes this was a suitable place to just rip it off, but Bernd seems to relax noticeably at the change of environment, closing his eyes in pleasure as he leans back against the bench. He then insists on opening the beer himself – even though it takes him much longer than if he’d asked for help –, before putting the bottle to his lips, downing half of it in one go.

Marc can’t help but snicker.

“Man, does it feel good to be outside,” Bernd says then, breathless and sated.

“Not the type to chill inside on a day off?”

“Hey, there’s a big difference between choosing to stay inside of your own free will, and to be stuck in a bed in a place that isn’t your own. Also, I wasn’t mentally prepared for this. I was meant to drive back to Stuttgart this morning.”

“‘Drive back’?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your car?”

Bernd turns the bottle in his hand, studying the label, thumbing at a wet, loose corner.

“Parked outside my parents’ place in Leverkusen.”

“Aren’t they going to worry when you’re not coming to pick it up?”

Bernd shrugs. “Hell if I know. Haven’t talked to them since yesterday.”

Marc just nods, slowly and thoughtfully, rolling his still unopened bottle between his hands as he bends forward, leaning his elbows on his thighs. He has a fairly good idea of what went down yesterday, but he doesn’t want to push Bernd into revealing more than he feels comfortable with. Even probing could result in Bernd sharing things too soon, and Marc has enough experience to know how awful that feels, regardless of how safe the other person is. Bernd doesn’t _know_ that Marc’s a safe person, and that makes a significant difference.

But he also can’t just burst out with something that will prove that he’s safe, because that’ll suggest that he already knows what’s going on, because it’s too much of a coincidence that one gay bloke tells a random one he just met that he’s indeed gay, when that’s exactly the struggle said random bloke is dealing with.

Goddamn it.

And this shouldn’t even be a big deal, not when they’re both grown-up and it’s 2018 and all, but Marc recognises internalised homophobia and LGBT related family issues all too well. Just because things in general have gotten better, it doesn’t mean that it has gotten better nor easier for every single individual.

“Haven’t they contacted you either?” he finally asks.

“Not unless they’ve called in the five minutes we’ve been away from my phone.”

“Do you have any idea why not?”

Bernd shrugs again and drinks from his bottle. “I’m a grown-up now, it’s not their job to take care of me anymore.”

“You’re still their kid. From what I’ve heard, you never stop worrying as long as your children are alive.”

Bernd scoffs. “Doubt they even see me as their kid anymore, if I’m honest.”

He brings the bottle to his lips again and takes his time emptying the content, and Marc wants so desperately to find the right thing to say or do. He knows how much of a difference just one right word or action could make, and he _wants_ to make that difference.

“You’re their _kid_ , Bernd.”

“They’ve got another.”

“Bullshit. There’s nothing in the world you could say or do that could change that.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know my parents.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t,” Bernd snaps, and looks him straight in the eye. “And you don’t know what I did.”

“There’s still a chance they’ll come around, even though it doesn’t seem like it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Mine came around after a while. Never thought the day would come until it suddenly did, completely out of the blue.”

Bernd scoffs again and stares pointedly in front of himself. “What on earth did you do to piss them off?”

“It’s not so important. Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

When Bernd turns to eye him, Marc adds, “We only just met, I don’t know how trustworthy you are. I’m not about to spill every secret about my life here on the second day.”

“So don’t expect me to do it either.”

Fair point, Marc thinks, and opens his own bottle.

“Should you even be drinking?” Bernd asks as Marc takes the first sip of the satisfyingly cold, fizzy beverage.

“Why?”

“Aren’t you driving?”

“Not today. I don’t live far from here, so I figured I’d just walk.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah.”

Bernd nods to himself and Marc senses an awkward silence coming. Quickly, as he hugs his bottle between his thighs, he reaches into his backpack, grabs another bottle and opens it without question, holding it out to Bernd.

“I can manage, you know,” Bernd comments, eyeing the bottle.

“Yeah, but it was painful enough to watch you struggle the first time. Come on, take it.”

Bernd rolls his eyes, but accepts it as Marc all but forces it into his uninjured hand.

“Thanks, I guess.”

Marc just smiles against the rim of his own bottle.

“Hey, Marc!”

The voice is definitely too loud, too high-pitched, too far away and coming from the completely wrong direction to be Bernd’s. Startled, he turns his head, glimpsing Daniela by the entrance – close enough to be seen and maybe recognised, but far away enough to have to yell.

“Hi, Dani,” he calls back and raises his bottle. She waves back, brushing a few long strands of blonde hair away from her face as she comes over.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, all smiles and dimples, putting her phone into the bag hanging off her one shoulder.

“You too,” Marc says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it yesterday.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I _did_ , yes. Missed you, though. Parties aren’t half as fun when you’re not there.” She winks at him, not even trying to be subtle about it. Marc just shakes his head at the flattery, knowing that she’s just exaggerating because she wants to put him in a better light in front of other people.

“Nah, it was probably for the best. Wasn’t in much of a party mood anyway.”

“I bet,” Dani snorts and turns to Bernd, who’s staring back and forth between them and frowning at their conversation. “Hi, I’m Daniela,” she says, smiling wrinkles appearing around her eyes as she beams at him, holding out her hand. “You’re the guy from yesterday, right?”

“Uh,” Bernd says, still looking confused between them before he collects himself. Quickly, he shoves his bottle between his thighs and accepts Dani’s hand with his good one. “Bernd. And yeah, probably, unless he has a habit of running over two to three guys a day.”

It’s delivered dry and without enthusiasm, but Dani laughs out loud, and Marc can hear that she’s not faking it.

“You didn’t tell me he had humour!” she says to Marc and then, turning back to Bernd, “It’s so nice to meet you, despite the circumstances.”

“Er, thanks? You too?”

“And I’m so sorry about him,” Daniela adds, nodding her head in Marc’s direction without taking her eyes off Bernd. “I’m always telling him to watch it when he restarts the car, and he never listens, never learns.”

“It was my fault, too,” Bernd begins to explain. “I should’ve paid more attention.”

“Don’t excuse him.” – “Dani!” – “He’s been making that mistake so many times it’s a wonder he hasn’t run anyone over yet. You were really unlucky to be the first one.”

Bernd just shrugs at that.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Marc shoots in. “I thought your grandma was discharged?”

“No, not yet. Tomorrow though, Tuesday at the latest. Figured I’d visit her one last time before then.”

“Greet her from me, will you?”

“Of course. I’ll call you sometime later tonight, okay?”

“Sure.”

She turns back to Bernd, sending him another smile, all but batting her eyelids at him. “It was nice to meet you, Bernd. Marc was lucky he didn’t run over some douche who’d sue his careless arse.”

“Thanks?”

Dani smiles again, blows Marc a kiss and walks off, all confident and self-satisfied. Marc doesn’t know if he should be impressed or weirded out.

“So,” Bernd says, reaching for the bottle between his legs and turning it in his hand. “Your girlfriend?”

“Huh?”

“Her. Daniela.” Bernd nods towards the entrance, where the automatic doors have just closed behind her. “I take it she’s your girlfriend?”

Marc frowns for a moment or two. It’s not because it’s a weird or illogical question, it’s just it’s so far from his own consciousness that he and Dani, or any other girl for that matter, could be in a relationship.

“Er, no. My best friend.”

“Right,” Bernd snorts and drinks from his bottle. “That’s what they all say when it’s complicated.”

Marc lets out a bark of a laugh. “It’s not complicated.”

“No? She into girls, or what?”

“Not at all.”

“Then what? Not that I know her, but she seems like a catch, and you two seem really close. When you know about her grandma and she gives you shit for your driving and stuff.”

Marc leans back against the bench, unable to suppress his laughter. “God, don’t you sound like my mum.”

“Oh, so your mum is also just waiting for it to happen? Dude, what are you waiting for? Go for it!”

“That’s a lot of enthusiasm all of a sudden,” Marc grins, surprising even himself. It hadn’t been half as fun when it was his mother pushing relationship ideas on him, whether before nor after he came out. He suspects she’ll never really get over the disappointment that she won’t share any beautiful, blonde grandkids with the Jehles.

But that’s his mother, and you always run a risk of disappointing your parents. A stranger you just met? Not nearly as important to you, and thus very hard to let down.

“C’mon, Marc, didn’t you see the way she was looking at you? All smirky and flirty? The disappointment that you weren’t at that party?”

“Oh lord,” Marc breathes out, running a hand through the longer strands of blonde hair at the top of his head. “That wasn’t… That’s not… Oh man.” He presses the hand to his mouth to stifle another laugh, imagining how Dani would react if she was still here. She’d be _ecstatic_. “That wasn’t why she was looking at me like that.”

“Why? I mean, I don’t really know you, but you’re a decent looking bloke. Uh, I guess. And you’re not all too bad if we look past the… well,” – Bernd gestures with his good hand – “the part where you landed me in hospital.”

Christ.

It’s not like it’s much of a secret, not really. And it’s not something Marc wants to make a big deal out of hiding, either. Parents excluded, most people that mattered to him reacted well when he finally came out. His brother, all his friends, Dani, Dani’s family – who were probably also convinced they’d share grandchildren with the ter Stegens some day. By the time he started at the university, he’d become comfortable enough with himself and his own sexuality that he never kept it a secret if it came up.

And now he’s overthinking and overanalysing in the presence of someone who’d probably benefit from him not talking around the topic. Again, he’s not supposed to know that Bernd’s in the same situation, and if Marc hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have watched his steps this carefully.

Ter Stegen, you dumbass.

“You asked if Dani was into girls, but you forgot to ask me.” He tries to emphasise the simplicity of it with a shrug, and Bernd frowns.

“Oh,” is all Bernd says after a moment of consideration, then silence.

Okay, Marc, it’s up to you now to not let this get awkward nor make a bigger deal out of it than it is. He reaches for his backpack just to have something to do, and puts the empty bottles back into it while he’s at it.

“Want to get out of the shadows?”

“Huh?” Bernd stares at him, eyebrows raised.

“We’ve been sitting here for a while, I thought you’d might like to stretch your legs a little.”

Bernd presses his lips together, looks away, swallows. Then he nods, a quick and curt nod, barely even there. “Uh. Sure. Stretching’d be nice.”

They stay silent for a while, saved by having something to do and not being forced to look at each other. But as the silence stretches on, Marc’s hit with an uncomfortable thought: what if he’s gotten it all wrong? What if Bernd wasn’t the one his family members were talking about yesterday, and he’s just as homophobic as the rest of them? He did mention his German Russian heritage, aren’t they more conservative than Germans in general?

Then again, a conservative family can be reason enough to stay in the closet.

“Look, B–”

“Hey, M–”

They begin and pause at the same time, resulting in some awkward apologies and gestures, which ends with Marc saying, “No, it wasn’t important, you go first.”

“Right. Uh.” Bernd pauses, kicks his feet against the ground. “This isn’t exactly important either, though. Just.” Teeth clenching, lip biting. “No. Never mind. It was nothing.”

“Okay,” Marc says easily enough. After another awkward pause though, he adds, “I didn’t make this weird now, did I?”

“What? No. No, I’m just. I’ve met plenty of lesbians, but.” Bernd scratches his forearm where his cast ends, a little below his elbow. “Never any blokes. That I know of.”

There’s plenty Marc wants to say, plenty he wants to ask, but he doesn’t know where to start. _Do you have a problem with gay men? Do you spend most of your time in an over-masculine and male-dominated environment? Is this why you’re closeted? Lack of accepting people around you? Lack of role models? Lack of love and care and support?_

“Hey, can we go back inside?” Bernd asks before Marc gets the chance to respond. “It’s… too hot out. The skin under my cast’s itching. And visiting hours will be over soon anyway.”

“Yeah, sure,” Marc says, even though a quick glance at his phone reveals that they’ve still got a good half hour.

Bernd checks his phone the second they come back to his room, sighing heavily before unplugging it and throwing it on the bed. No new messages or missed calls then, Marc thinks and feels a sting of pity. If he’d been gone for this long after a fight and his parents didn’t know where he was, he’d be disappointed by the lack of attempts to reach him, too.

“Thanks for letting me borrow this,” Bernd says, handing the charger back to Marc.

“You can just keep it until tomorrow. I have a spare at my parents’.”

“I’m being discharged after the surgery tomorrow. I won’t get the chance to give it back.”

Marc frowns at him. “Won’t you be under general anaesthetic?”

“I guess. Why?”

“Ever done that before? You’re not allowed to be on your own for the first twenty-four hours after the surgery. Can’t drive either, you need someone to pick you up.”

“So they’ll keep me until Tuesday, it’s no big deal.”

“They won’t, unless they have a good medical reason to. Come on, Bernd, stop playing the emotionally distanced card already, it’s only going to backfire. I’ll come pick you up.”

“You’ve done enough already, you don’t have to–”

“So you think your parents are going to just magically turn up tomorrow?”

“I’ll figure something out. Jesus.”

“Do you even know anyone in this state who isn’t family?”

“Okay, hold up,” Bernd all but growls, getting visibly angry now. “What is it with you and being so dead set on helping me? You got a crush on me or something? Looking for an easy way into someone’s pants?”

Ah, back to the stage of anger and denial and ‘I’m going to be a total douche and push everyone away’. Marc huffs out a sarcastic laugh and shakes his head, disappointed and discouraged. If he didn’t recognise what Bernd’s trying to do and the situation he’s in, Marc would’ve left right then and there and not looked back.

“You’re way out of line now,” he says, firmly but not angrily. “And the only reason I’m letting it pass, is because I know you’re grasping at straws, including even the weakest excuses you can think of.”

Bernd clenches his jaw.

“You gotta have _some_ kind of agenda with this.”

“Honestly, Bernd, I’m just trying to help you out in a situation where you don’t have anyone else.”

“Yeah, because you’ve ‘been there yourself’,” Bernd snarls. “Stop trying to mend your own heartbreak by trying to save me, or whatever it is you think you’re doing, because it’s not going to work.”

Marc’s about to respond when Bernd’s words really sink in, and his breath catches in his throat. Quickly, he looks away, sucking his lip into his mouth, not wanting to show how much the words sting. Yes, Bernd’s saying it out of anger, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. He can’t be forced to be a part of Marc’s own healing process.

“Fine,” Marc says, voice weaker than it was only a few seconds ago, stuffing his charger into the loose pocket of his shorts. Without offering Bernd another look, he turns to leave, throwing a tense, “I hope the surgery goes well” over his shoulder.

His hand is pressing down the door handle when he hears Bernd’s voice again, low and weak, barely audible.

“You were saying?” Marc asks as he turns his head, seeing Bernd standing sort of lost and alone in the middle of the room, scratching his forearm again.

“I… don’t know anyone else who can pick me up tomorrow.” He’s not looking directly at Marc, and a pained grimace passes over his features as he utters the words.

“It’s really no trouble for me to come get you,” Marc assures him, voice calm and far gentler than before. “Honestly.”

Bernd scratches a little harder. “Yeah. Just. How do we do it?”

“Just call or text me when you know anything. I’ll keep tomorrow free and come as fast as I can.”

“Yeah,” Bernd breathes out, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, still not looking in Marc’s direction. “Okay.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gets as far as to opening the door this time before he hears Bernd’s voice again.

“Hey, Marc?”

Bernd waits until he’s turned around, and then some.

“I’m…” Another pained grimace. “I’m not like you.”

Marc sends him a careful, reassuring smile.

“Never said you were.”

~*~

First, Marc asks his mother if he can borrow their car on Monday. She frowns at the unusual request, but is easily won over when he cleans up after dinner, plus cleans the bathroom.

Then he calls work and asks if anyone can step in for him on the ten o’clock shift the next day. Also easily settled by offering to work a Saturday in return.

Dani calls not much later, and after some talk about everything and nothing, she forces the conversation over on the topic ‘Bernd’. She begins with ‘he really _is_ cute!’, then grows serious.

“He’s likely going to need some help in the weeks to follow as well,” she says, reminding Marc that the wrist will still need a while to heal and that even the basic things are going to be hard to handle with only one hand available. “Are you planning on just having him stay with you?”

“Haven’t really thought that far,” Marc admits. “But now that you mention it…”

Because his flatmates in Düsseldorf aren’t going to be there for some weeks anyway. Tony’s on holiday somewhere south and warm and bathing friendly with his girlfriend, and they tend to spend some time in Sachsen during the breaks as well.

 _you okay with me having a friend stay with me in the flat for a few weeks?_ he texts.

 _“friend” lol. sure, knock yourself out_ comes the reply not long after.

Then there’s Howie, but in all the years Marc’s known and lived with him, he’s always gone home to Norway to go fishing or skiing whenever they have a week off or more.

_you okay with me having a friend stay with me in the flat for a few weeks?_

_about time you got yourself a boyfriend!! enjoy_

Well, hopefully they won’t be too disappointed when they come home and realise that Marc’s still single.


	3. Day Three

Marc receives the first text from Bernd while he’s working on one of his assignments around noon. He sends a thumb up in return, and decides that he’s going to be a good, effective student until he gets the next sign of life.

For once, it works.

It’s late afternoon when Bernd calls him. He sounds tired and kind of drugged, but apparently he’s ready to go home soon. He just needs another x-ray, then talk to the doctor, and he’ll be all set.

Marc, satisfied with his own accomplishment of the day already, packs his laptop and his books into his backpack, gets his bag from the bedroom and throws it into the backseat of the car.

“You’ll come back with it tomorrow, right?” his mum asks, catching him just when he’s opened the door to the driver’s seat.

“Of course, don’t worry.”

“Good. Greet this… friend of yours from me.”

“I will.”

He decides not to dwell too much on the hesitation in her voice. Unlike his flatmates, it could also mean that she’s uncomfortable and dissatisfied with the idea of Marc having a boyfriend. His sexuality is one thing, but it’s more or less invisible when he’s not in a relationship. And since he’s never really been in one, his parents haven’t yet been forced to actively deal with the consequences of him liking men.

Bernd’s been moved to a new room, one reserved for patients awakening from general anaesthesia, but there are no other patients there when Marc arrives. Bernd seems a lot more awake than he sounded on the phone, and he actually looks happy to see Marc again.

“That was fast.”

Marc sends him a quick smile. “How are you doing?”

“Been better,” Bernd responds and sits up in bed – not without grimacing when he involuntary jolts his left arm. A new cast has been put on it, supported by a sling going behind his back and over his neck.

“Did you take the x-ray yet?”

Bernd nods towards the bedside table. “Look at that monster.”

Marc frowns, then the black-white-grey style of an x-ray photo catches his attention. At first, he doesn’t quite understand what he’s looking at, but then he realises what’s bone and what isn’t and– _holy shit?_

“ _What_ the hell is that?” he exclaims, pointing at the white plate with holes in it, which covers the radius where the bone meets the hand and continues down Bernd’s forearm. “You have _that_ inside you?”

“Yep,” Bernd says, his lips pulling into a weak grin. “Titanium plate, with screws and everything. Just look at the second photo.” Pushing the photo taken from above to the side, Marc throws a quick glance at the other, shivering at how deep the screws go, piercing what looks like half of Bernd’s wrist.

“Pretty badass, right?”

“Badass is not the first word that comes to my mind,” Marc admits and picks up the x-rays. “Jesus Christ, I didn’t even make the connection that a surgery meant that you were getting a plate.”

“It’s not so bad,” Bernd shrugs. “It’s not like I can feel it.”

“How are you doing, then?” Marc asks again as he puts down the photos, turning them so that his eyes won’t be drawn in their direction.

“Doesn’t really hurt yet. Been given some pretty heavy painkillers.”

“Which ones?”

“Can’t remember,” Bernd all but giggles. “They said some fancy words then handed me some capsules in a glass.”

The doctor enters then, and Marc listens patiently as she gives Bernd an update on how it went and what he has to remember for the weeks to come. Keep the wrist high. Don’t put weight on it. Don’t let the plaster cast get wet; make sure to cover it up well when showering or walking outside in the rain. The cast will be removed after two weeks’ time, and there’ll be another check-up with a new x-ray after six weeks.

“Do you have anyone who can help you out in this time period?”

“What do you mean, help me?”

“You’re going to find that even the simplest of things are hard when you only have one hand available. It can take some time getting used to, so you will at least need help in the beginning, but not unlikely until the cast’s been removed.”

Bernd leans his head back against the pillows and lets out a deep sigh. “I… didn’t think that far. I don’t even live here in North Rhine-Westphalia.”

“Anything you need help with can be arranged–” the doctor begins.

Marc clears his throat.

“Yes?”

“None of that will be a problem. We’ve already got it covered.”

The doctor looks positively surprised; Bernd just glares.

“We _have_?”

“You’re a friend? Relative?”

“Friend,” Marc states, stressing the word. Technically a lie, but the less the doctor knows about their very new and very unstable friendship, the better. “We’ve already arranged for him to stay at mine for a few weeks. I’m home most of the time working on assignments for the uni, so I’ll have plenty of time to help him out with whatever it is.”

Bernd glares more.

“Good.” The doctor turns to Bernd. “Now, please call us if you have questions or something doesn’t seem right. If your fingers change colour or swell, it’s a sign that the cast’s too tight, in which case you’ll need to come in for a new one.”

Bernd nods.

“Do you have any questions?”

“None that I can think of at the moment, no.”

“Okay. Well, that means we’re done here, so as soon as you feel ready, you can leave.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yes. And don’t forget to pick up enough painkillers at the pharmacy. A combination of ibuprofen and paracetamol should be enough.” The last part she says as she looks from Bernd to Marc, and Marc nods.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Excellent. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Thanks,” Bernd says, and the doctor leaves again.

The second the door closes behind her, Bernd reaches for Marc with his good hand and digs his nails into his forearm, hard.

“The _fuck_ , dude.”

“What? Also, ow,” Marc says with a grimace as he wrestles himself from Bernd’s tight grip. “Listen, I’ve already spoken to my flatmates, they won’t be home for a few weeks anyway. They don’t have a problem with you staying until you can manage on your own.”

“I can’t stay here for weeks!” Bernd hisses. “I have work! I have responsibilities!”

“Construction?” Marc asks, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Look, Bernd, I’m sorry to break it to you, but you aren’t going to get jack shit done with your arm immobile. This is a serious case of sick leave if I ever saw one.”

Bernd growls in response.

“Unless you live with someone in Stuttgart who can help you?”

Bernd’s now well-known clenched jaw is the only response this time.

“That’s what I thought. If you grow tired of staying with me we can always arrange it so that you can go home, but let’s just try first, okay? Please? You were mentally prepared to come home with me today anyway, so at least stay until tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” comes the grumpy reply.

“And after that there’s no pressure, we’ll just take one day at the time.”

Bernd scratches at the skin above his cast. “Yeah.”

“Now, do you feel up for leaving now, or do you need more time?”

“Nah. We can leave.”

~*~

“Nice place,” Bernd comments when they step through the door of the flat Marc shares with his two mates in Düsseldorf.

“Thanks.”

It’s not the biggest, but it’s a lot better than many of the places Marc’s seen in his time when visiting fellow study mates and the occasional one-night stand. They’re good at keeping it clean, and the combined kitchen and living room makes up for the smaller bedrooms. The kitchen area doesn’t feel too cramped even when two are using it at once, and the bathroom may be small, but at least it has enough space to move around without knocking over or into anything.

It’s certainly a place where it’s an advantage to get along well with your flatmates, but that has never been much of a problem. Marc’s heard plenty of stories from others about their flatmates, so he considers himself lucky that it’s been him, Tony and Howie for as long as he’s lived here and they all connected from the very beginning. He might even go as far as to call them his best friends – them and Dani, of course.

“Just, make yourself at home, I guess,” Marc says, dropping his bag and backpack on the floor in the hallway before toeing off his shoes. “You can borrow my clothes if you like, they should fit you pretty well. And anything you need, we can get.”

“Yeah,” Bernd says, nodding to himself as he looks around the place. Scans the shelf with their books and DVDs, takes in the football and film posters on the otherwise boring off-white walls, the big TV and the leather sofa dominating the main room, then eyes the different doors leading from the open space.

One door has a poster of some rapper, the one beside that an old, red jersey with the name Rekdal and the number 10 printed in white, and one of the doors on the opposite wall has a poster of this season’s team photo of Borussia Mönchengladbach. The fourth has just the two standard letters that would indicate a bathroom.

“I take it that’s your room,” Bernd grins, pointing at the Gladbach poster.

“Wow, how could you tell,” Marc winks and walks over to open it.

“Just a hunch.” Bernd looks inside, taking in the double bed with Borussia duvet covers, the desk, the book shelves, the closet, the armchair drowning under a bunch of used clothes. There’s a Gladbach jersey above the bed, and above the desk, a black chalkboard for notes with the rest of the wall covered in photos from Barcelona and small places around Catalonia.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Marc’s quick to point out, before Bernd can start to worry about them having to sleep in the same bed. “You can have the bed.”

“It’s your bed.”

“And you’re injured. Our sofa isn’t even that bad, I have no problem with crashing there.”

“Oh God, please stop,” Bernd groans. “There’s no need to sacrifice yourself like that.”

“I was just thinking, since we don’t really know each other and all. Just want to make sure you’re going to feel welcome and comfortable here.”

Bernd runs his good hand over his face, before pressing it to the back of his neck, kneading it with a pressed sigh.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but right now, I couldn’t care less. All I want is somewhere to lie down and sleep for two days. I’m exhausted, my wrist’s pounding, I desperately need a shower and a shave, but I don’t think I can stand upright for much longer.”

By the end of Bernd’s response, Marc’s already started to pull off the pillow case.

“Fuck, Marc, just leave it. I’m too tired to care.”

“Right. As long you’ll take the bed?”

“It’s the only thing ready to just crash on, isn’t it? _Yes_ , I’ll take the bed.”

Bernd kind of awkwardly flops down on it then, trying to be relaxed about it while simultaneously keeping his arm stable. It results in a pained grimace and a groan.

“Fuck, this is going to take some getting used to, alright.”

Marc fetches an extra pillow from the living room for Bernd’s arm, helps him adjust it properly, then he gestures towards Bernd’s lower body.

“Are you sure you want to sleep in your cargos and socks?”

“No,” Bernd mutters, “but I’m too exhausted to do something about it.”

“Right. Raise your hips.”

Somehow, he manages to undress Bernd without Bernd being much help, and by the time Marc wriggles the duvet away from underneath him to tuck him in, Bernd’s already fast asleep.

At least it doesn’t look like insomnia is going to be a problem.

~*~

It’s still dark out when Marc, crashed out on the sofa with his computer in his lap, is brought out of his light sleep by rather disturbing noises relatively close by. It takes him a moment to get conscious and then another to recognise the sound, but then he jolts up from the squeaky leather, suddenly wide awake.

The bathroom door stands wide open and he rushes over to find Bernd kneeling on the floor, draped over the toilet with tears in his eyes, nose running, still coughing up bile caught in his throat.

“Oh, man,” Marc sighs, and is quick to find a fresh cloth and soak it in cold water.

“Sorry,” Bernd whimpers as Marc crouches down next to him, reaching out to wipe the cloth over his forehead, down his cheeks, over his mouth.

“Hey, it’s okay. No reason to be sorry.”

Bernd’s chest seems to jerk involuntary then, and Marc jumps back in reflex just as Bernd bends down. Then nothing, before Bernd coughs, spits and leans back.

“‘s just bile,” he explains, his voice strained. “Haven’t eaten properly since Sunday.”

“I take it’s just a combination of everything, then,” Marc reasons and crouches back down, folding the cloth before wiping it over Bernd’s face again.

“… yeah.”

“Are you in any pain now?”

A weak nod.

“How much?”

“… a lot.”

“Okay. Do you remember what time it was when you were last given painkillers?”

“Must’ve been when they fed me at the hospital. Sometime between four and five.”

Marc fishes his phone out of the jeans he so stupidly managed to fall asleep in. _01:36_.

“So it’s been at least eight hours. Perfect timing for the next dose.”

He helps Bernd to his feet, flushes the toilet and closes the lid, before pushing Bernd down on it.

“I’ll be right back,” he says as he flings the cloth into the sink.

The bag from the pharmacy is still in his backpack in the hallway, and he rummages through it until he can find the painkillers. A combination of ibuprofen and paracetamol, that’s what the doctor said. As he passes the fridge on the way back, he spontaneously grabs an unopened ice-cold bottle of water.

Bernd is trying to get out of his soaked and dirty t-shirt when Marc comes back, which is easier said than done with a heavy cast and only one hand available.

“God, I can’t even _undress_ myself,” Bernd whimpers, an angry, desperate sound forcing itself up his throat as he tears at the fabric. “Fucking _dammit_.”

Marc’s chest aches in sympathy. He thought it was bad enough when he twisted his ankle once in secondary school, and granted, it was definitely inconvenient, but at least he was able to do most things on his own.

“Here,” he says, opening the bottle with a loud _psssht_. “I hope sparkling is okay.”

Bernd nods, and takes a few careful, testing sips.

“Do you think you can keep the pills down?”

Bernd shrugs. “We’ll see. Let’s just get it over with.” He squeezes the bottle between his thighs and holds out his hand.

“They may not have the same effect as the heavier stuff you got in the hospital,” Marc says as he presses the correct dose out of the two boards and into Bernd’s palm.

“As long as I don’t have to spend more time hanging over the toilet, I don’t really care,” Bernd mutters and shoves one pill at the time into his mouth, swallowing with a great deal of water.

“I can get you a new shirt to sleep in, if you like,” Marc adds. “I should have a looser, lighter one that’s still clean.”

For a moment, he’s worried that Bernd’s going to resist his help again – his jaw clenches, his good hand curls harder around the water bottle, the skin stretching tight over his knuckles.

Marc’s about to go on when Bernd finally closes his eyes, sighs heavily and leans back, his grip on the bottle loosening.

“Yeah. That’d be great.”

“Come on, then.”

He helps Bernd to his feet and together they half walk, half stumble back to the bedroom. With a little patience, they manage to get the dirty shirt off, and Marc throws it into his laundry basket before fetching a new one. It sits very loose on his own skinny frame, far too wide for both his torso and his arms. It has a similar effect on Bernd, because he seems to be swimming in it when they finally get it on.

“How does that feel?”

“Better,” Bernd admits and pulls a little at the soft, worn fabric.

He then insists on making himself comfortable on his own, and Marc heads into the bathroom to get a bucket. He fills it with enough water to cover the bottom, rinses the cloth and hangs it up to dry, before tip-toeing back to the bedroom.

Bernd seems to be dozing already, so he just places the bucket carefully next to the bed, takes out the spare duvet and covers from the closet, and retrieves back to the living room.


	4. Day Four

Bernd sleeps for a good ten hours. Marc considers waking him up after about eight for the next dose of painkillers, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt the poor bloke’s much needed sleep, so instead he takes a quick shower and fixes himself some breakfast.

He’s well into one of his assignments when Bernd stumbles out of the bedroom around noon. The rest of the late morning is spent getting some food and painkillers into him, helping him apply for sick leave, and sorting out other practical things.

“I work at a sports shop a few days a week,” Marc informs Bernd as he puts on the washing machine – something he should’ve done before he went home this weekend, but couldn’t be bothered to. On the plus side, he gets to throw in Bernd’s clothes with his own.

“Cool.”

“And I have a few assignments for uni to finish, but they’re not due until the end of September.”

Marc douses a towel in hot water and hands it to Bernd, who’s taken place on the toilet seat.

“Just cos I’m half handicapped for the time being, it doesn’t mean you have to nurse me every second of the day,” Bernd says, voice muffled by the towel as he dabs his face.

“… you said, just when I’m about to help you shave.”

“Hey, that’s different,” Bernd protests. “I’m not a fan of having cuts all over my face. Besides, I haven’t used a non-electronic razor since I was still in high school.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Marc says, opening the cabinet, pulling out shaving cream, his razor and a new blade. “Lucky for you, though, I’m still used to the traditional razors, otherwise you could’ve bet your smooth schoolboy face you’d be covered in cuts afterwards.”

“Still doesn’t mean you’ll be a pro at shaving someone else.”

“True,” Marc says, and sprays shaving cream into his palm. “But jokes aside, I’ll be around, so don’t hesitate to ask me if you need help with anything. Even if it’s just to open a bottle.”

“Yes, mum.”

Marc rolls his eyes and starts splattering the shaving cream in Bernd’s face.

“And just let me know if you need anything from the store.”

“You’re not gonna pay for everything now, too, are you?” Bernd says, trying to keep his lips pressed together in order not to get any cream in his mouth.

“If you want to spit in some money, that’s fine, but I can take care of the shopping itself. I wouldn’t want you struggling at the store with one hand if I can prevent it.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I have to admit,” Marc says as he rinses the superfluous shaving cream off his hands, “I’m not the greatest nor most creative cook, so if you have ideas or wishes for dinner, that’d be great.”

“Aren’t you gay?”

Marc punches Bernd in the shoulder on his good side and reaches for the razor. “Doesn’t work that way. Now, sit still and don’t talk, or else I _will_ cut you, and it won’t be on purpose.”

Bernd sends him a grumpy look, which kind of makes him look like a bad Santa, only much younger and without the long, white hair and red hat. Marc bites his tongue not to snicker.

It takes him some to get used to the angle, but Bernd’s at least patient enough to sit completely still, so the first few clumsy attempts don’t end in bloodshed. After that, it’s almost as easy as doing it on himself: shave, rinse, shave, rinse, shave, rinse.

“What do you think?” he asks Bernd when he considers himself done.

Bernd dabs the wet towel against his face again, then frowns at his own reflection. “My electric razor sure does a better job, but I guess it could’ve been worse.”

“Just give me a few weeks, and we’ll see what you say then,” Marc counters, drying off his own hands. “Now, just go make yourself comfortable. I have to go drive the car back to Mönchengladbach.”

“… why?”

“It’s my parents’. I had to bribe my mum for her to let me borrow it until today.”

“You know…” Bernd pauses for a moment. “I’ve still got mine in Leverkusen. It’s even got some of my stuff in it, I didn’t unpack before the get-together started. We could go get it, if you want.”

“Really?”

Bernd shrugs. “I don’t want it parked at my parents’ for weeks anyway. And I’m sure it’s going to be a lot more practical for you to have a car available, especially if you have to drag me along somewhere. It’s a win-win situation, really.”

It really is.

“Do you feel up for picking it up tomorrow morning, then?”

“Sure. They’ll be out of the house then, too.”

~*~

Showering, turns out, also isn’t very easy to manage on your own with one arm. When Marc comes back from Mönchengladbach, he finds Bernd by the kitchen counter, trying to wrap a plastic bag around his arm and fastening it with tape. It’s not really working with one hand, and the growls and muttered curses suggest that he’s been trying for a while.

“Hey,” Marc says, careful not to startle him.

“This motherfucking cast.”

“Do you need any help?”

Bernd’s shoulders seem to slump, then he nods.

“How long have you been struggling with this now?” Marc asks as he presses the plastic bag close to Bernd’s arm, getting as much air out as possible before starting to tape it just above his elbow.

“… a while,” Bernd mutters. “And don’t say it. I know you can help me. I just didn’t want to ask without having tried it myself first. I wanted to test if I can manage on my own.”

Marc nods and finds another plastic bag.

“Christ, Marc.”

“They did state very explicitly that the cast shouldn’t get wet. Plastic bags tear easily, it’s better to be on the safe side.”

“Whatever.”

When Marc follows Bernd in to the bathroom, he means to just make sure that the bottles are easily opened with one hand. And help him undress, because the plastic bags on top of the already thick cast come in the way of the t-shirt, and the sweatpants Marc gave him – well, they’re loose and soft enough for Bernd to manage on his own.

“At least clothes aren’t much of a problem anymore.”

Bernd scoffs. “If it’s without buttons and zippers and whatnot, yes. And twice as wide as the clothes I’d normally wear.”

“It’ll get better once you get the cast off,” Marc says from where he’s taking the wet clothes out of the washing machine and dropping them into a basket. “And who cares what you’re wearing if you’re just hanging around here. I’m the only one here, and I certainly don’t mind.”

Bernd shrugs and pulls off his socks, then he stands up, eyeing the bathtub sceptically – the many bottles on the corner edges, the frosted glass wall covering half the length, the anti-slip mat on the bottom.

He pauses with his good hand on the waistband of his boxers, sending Marc a pointed look.

“Marc?” he says, nodding towards the bathroom door. “Do you mind?”

“Oh! Right. Of course.”

Marc grabs the basket and gets out, closes the door, squeezes his eyes shut and facepalms himself, hard, as he leans back against it. He can hear some shuffling, a muttered curse, then the echoing sound of feet in the tub and water running.

Yeah. Of course Bernd will be fine on his own, what the hell was he thinking.

He brings out the drying rack to hang up their clothes, and is halfway through the basket when he hears the characteristic loud, echoing noise of bottles tumbling and a sharp, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Marc freezes in the middle of shaking Bernd’s t-shirt, and awaits further reaction.

Apart from water continuing to stream, there are no sounds coming from the other side of the door.

Marc shrugs and goes back to the clothes.

He’s just hung up the last piece of clothing – a deep green hoodie, one of his favourites – when the water is turned off, and he has just the time to think that wow, that was a quick shower, before he hears a frustrated sigh.

“Hey, Marc?”

“Yeah?” he calls back.

“I know this is…” The sound of a hand slapping against hard tile. “God, this is awkward, but could you… You know?”

Marc walks back into the bathroom and leans against the door frame, fixed on not to stare. This is nothing different from the showers in school and at football practice. “Help you shower?”

“Yeah.” Bernd turns slightly to steal a look at him, turning back around abruptly, but Marc still catches how a familiar red colour is starting to spread over his cheeks, down his neck and out to the tip of his ears. “Unless it’s… I don’t know, awkward for you or…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Marc cuts him off, voice slightly muffled by the t-shirt he’s already pulling over his head.

“And don’t get any ideas,” Bernd adds, voice a little tenser this time, and Marc can’t help but snicker as he goes for his belt and zipper.

“This isn’t much different from showering with classmates and after football practice.”

“You and I remember those very differently.”

Marc snorts and toes off his socks. “I meant, there’s nothing sexual about this. Think about all the nurses, how many times they help all kinds of people with basic hygiene every day. This isn’t any different.”

Bernd turns his head again, doing his best to glare at Marc. “They still don’t have to get naked in the shower with the old ladies and whoever.”

“Re _lax_ , Bernd,” Marc says as he steps up in the tub. “I’m keeping my boxers on.”

By the way Bernd lets his head loll back, Marc can only imagine how hard he just rolled his eyes.

“Where’d you like me to start?”

“The hair. Only thing I need help with, really. The rest I can handle on my own.”

“Copy that,” Marc says and reaches for the shampoo.

He squeezes out some and spreads it between his palms, then he starts massaging it into Bernd’s scalp. It’s a plus, really, that his hair’s cut so short, it’ll be easier to maintain for them both.

Slowly, as the shampoo starts to foam, Marc increases the pressure with his fingertips, pressing gently just above Bernd’s forehead, down to his temples, round to the back of his head and towards his nape. Bernd relaxes visibly as Marc applies pressure to the point where his short hair ends in a straight line, letting out a sigh of pleasure, almost leaning back against him.

“For the record,” Marc says, keeping his voice low and calm in order to make this as relaxing as possible, “this wouldn’t be any different if I’d had a boyfriend with me here instead of you.”

Bernd leans his head slightly to the side, enough for Marc to see that his eyes are closed, his features relaxed. “So I’m getting the boyfriend treatment, is that what you’re saying?”

Marc suppresses a grin and moves his hands back up, scraping gently across Bernd’s scalp with his blunt fingernails. “No,” he says as Bernd’s sigh turns into something that reminds suspiciously of a whimper. “I’m saying there isn’t a difference between helping a friend and helping a boyfriend in the shower.”

“Really,” Bernd all but breathes out. “So if I was your boyfriend, this wouldn’t be any different in any way?”

“Nope,” Marc says and reaches past Bernd for the shower head, ignoring how his chest briefly brushes against Bernd’s shoulder blade. As gently as possible without experience, trying his best not to get any water nor foam in Bernd’s eyes, he rinses out the shampoo. “Another round?”

“Mhm,” Bernd hums, sounding very pleased with his own state at the moment, despite the broken wrist and the immobile arm.

Marc repeats his moves, but tries to do it even slower, more thoroughly this time around, massaging all the way down to Bernd’s neck and where it meets his shoulders. Judging by the sounds he makes, Bernd sure is appreciating the treatment.

“Now that I think of it, though,” Marc says as he moves his palms from Bernd’s neck up to his temples in one smooth motion, “had I been standing here with a boyfriend, I’d probably wash his back, too.”

It takes a moment for the words to register with Bernd, then Marc feels his shoulders raise in a shrug.

“There’s no reason back washing can’t be platonic.”

“You think?” Marc asks as he reaches for the shower head again. “Well, if you have the time…”

“I’m basically gonna sit on my arse for two weeks plus,” Bernd snorts and leans his head back not to get water and shampoo in his eyes. “I’ve got time.”

Easily convinced, Marc thinks with a smug grin, grateful that Bernd can’t see it, and reaches for the shower gel. He squeezes a rich amount of it into his hand and starts spreading it on Bernd’s shoulder blades.

“How long did you play football for?” Bernd asks then, stretching his shoulders.

“From I was young enough to play until I finished school. Raise your arms, please?”

“Yeah? Why’d you quit?” Bernd asks, as he raises his arms the best he can so that Marc can soap in his armpits.

“I haven’t. I still play for fun with my mates, I’m just not part of a club anymore.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not so bad, though. Less pressure this way, more enjoyment.”

“I g– _uess_.” Bernd cuts himself off with a loud, satisfied sigh as Marc rubs gel-covered hands up and down his back. “Shit, that feels really good.”

“I would probably give a boyfriend a full-on massage if there was enough time for it,” Marc muses and reaches for the shower head to clean off the gel, focusing very pointedly on Bernd’s shoulders as he does so, in order to keep his eyes off of the paths water and soap create down Bernd’s rather defined back and buttocks. Either construction really gets your muscles working, or Bernd’s spending a considerable amount of time in the gym.

Bernd shifts his weight from one foot to the other a few times.

“I don’t think I need to remind you,” – and at this point, Marc’s already reached for the gel a second time – “that I’m going to have very little to do and be very bored for the rest of the day.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever given a mate of mine a massage before, though.”

“I see girls giving each other massages all the time. Platonic as fuck, don’t worry about it.”

Marc suppresses a snicker and gets to it, and it doesn’t take much kneading before Bernd’s shoulders are dropping, his whole body going completely slack.

“Wouldn’t’ve expected hands like that from a footballer,” Bernd comments at one point, without much strength in his voice, almost sounding like his kind of drugged self from yesterday.

“How about a goalkeeper?” Marc asks and works at a particular tense muscle, loosing it effectively with his practiced hands.

“You were a goalie?” Bernd says, suddenly a lot sharper, turning his head to look at Marc out of the corner of his eye.

“One of the many perks of being so tall.”

“Oh, I know,” Bernd says, and is that just Marc, or does it sound like he’s trying not to laugh? “I was a goalie too.”

Marc stops, his hands dropping from Bernd’s body in surprise. “You _were_?”

“Yeah.” And yes, Bernd’s definitely grinning now.

“Damn. What are the odds.”

“Greater if you consider our heights.”

Yeah, Marc has to give him that. “Which club did you play for?” he asks as he continues where he left off.

“Stuttgart.”

“Aren’t your parents living in Leverkusen?”

“Yeah, well, we used to live close to Stuttgart, but moved before I had finished high school. Mum got a job at Bayer. I moved back the first chance I got after that.”

“Do you still play?”

Bernd shrugs. “Not professionally. Didn’t really work out with the moving and all. Oh, _shit_. _Right_ there.”

Marc just grins and kneads Bernd’s shoulder a little harder.

“Holy shit, that’s so fucking good.”

“How far did you make it in Stuttgart?”

“I would’ve likely made it to the – _ah_ – A team if we hadn’t moved. You?”

 _Shit_. Shit, Bernd’s _good_.

“I had the potential to do the same at Borussia.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. But the year ’92 was one of the best Gladbach’s academy has seen. We were _really_ good. Sometimes I catch myself wishing I’d made it, but in the end it demanded more of me than I was willing to give.”

“Yeah, I feel you…” Bernd trails off with a sigh, flexing his shoulders. “But shit, you’re born in ’92 as well?”

“Yes. The best year, right?”

“Oh, definitely. The ‘92s of Stuttgart weren’t too bad, ei _ther_.” Bernd cuts himself off with what’s definitely a groan and lowers his head as Marc finds another tense muscle. “Fuck, with hands like these, you could’ve become a physio.”

“Unlikely. I can do it for fun if I feel like it, but I wouldn’t want to do it professionally.”

“A secret treat for your future boyfriend, then.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Marc agrees, emphasising the words by kneading harder.

Whatever Bernd means to say gets lost in a moan and he needs a moment or two to just breathe. “Whoever he is,” he pants, catching his breath, “he’s gonna be one lucky bastard.”

“Careful now,” Marc grins, “you don’t really know me that well yet.”

“I know that those hands come from catching balls,” – to which Marc snorts and Bernd kicks him in the shin – “not shovelling to bury dead bodies. Works for me.”

“Maybe I shovel in my spare time.”

“I couldn’t care less right now. If that’s what it takes to get hands like that, it’s all the same to me. Boyfriend treatment is the _best_.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if my future boyfriend ever complains.”

“Nah, better not. He’s not gonna feel very special if he finds out you’ve been giving friends the same treatment. Newly acquired friends, even.”

“Who says you’re being given the full boyfriend treatment?” Marc asks, grinning to himself as he finds another tense muscle. “I thought we agreed that all of this was completely platonic.”

“Oh my God, you got _more_ in store? How?”

If they weren’t before, they’re definitely nearing dangerous territory now. But it’s too good, the comment is burning at the tip of his tongue, and Marc can’t help it…

“I’d kiss his neck and finish him off with a handjob.”

The tips of Bernd’s ears and the nape of his neck go from pale to red in an instant. Despite standing still, he seems to stumble, feet almost slipping on the wet mat, needing to reach out and catch himself with his good hand against the glass wall.

Fuck.

“… too far?” Marc tries, taking a step back, his hands falling from Bernd’s body.

“Uhm,” Bernd begins, his voice strangely high-pitched. He clears it, coughs, clears it again. “No, just.” Another cough. “I’m good, just, wasn’t expecting that. For you to be that… forward. Uhm.”

Marc steps forward and reaches for the shower head, holding on to Bernd’s shoulder for support by sheer reflex.

“I’m good, Marc,” Bernd repeats and flinches, shaking off Marc’s hand. “I can take it from here.”

“Are you sure? It’s no bother…”

“Really. Thanks for… for the massage, and stuff, but I’ve got it.”

“Okay.”

Marc steps out and reaches for his towel to dry off his arms and legs, then he picks up his clothes and leaves the bathroom.

“Towels are in the cabinet below the sink, by the way!” he calls out just before he closes the door.

Bernd comes out about ten minutes later, when Marc is sitting in front of his laptop at the kitchen table, a still too hot mug of coffee beside him on the table, trying to motivate himself to get some writing done. Bernd smells fresh and clean and very much like Marc’s gel and shampoo, so when he flops down on the worn leather sofa in Marc’s own clothes, it’s almost like watching a scene from his own life. Minus the cast and the sling.

“You figured it out?”

Bernd shrugs. “I’m still capable of turning water on and off and opening cabinet doors.”

“And the bags on your arm?”

“Just ripped them off.”

“It’s effective, I’ll give you that.”

“What are you doing, anyway?”

“Working on one of my too many assignments.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

Bernd shrugs. “Just had a thought. Won’t bother you if you’re busy.”

“What thought?”

“That we could watch one of those films you’ve got here, or binge some lame show on Netflix or something. But it was just a thought, if you’re busy we don’t have to.”

Marc eyes the empty new page in his word document, turns to Bernd, back to the document, down to the big, heavy books next to the laptop.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what. I’ll write one page while you do… whatever you want to do that won’t make much noise, then I’ll order us some takeaway and we can watch whatever show you’d like to watch for the rest of the evening. How does that sound?”

Bernd just looks at him for a moment, working his lips between his teeth. “You got popcorn?”

“Loads.”

“Deal.”

~*~

Marc wakes up when it’s pitch-black out this night as well. This time, however, it’s not because of some loud noise that’s not supposed to be there, he’s just suddenly wide awake, staring up at the ceiling in the living room.

He reaches for his phone to check the time, groaning out loud when he sees the white letters on a Borussia logo background staring at him. _3:17_. God, how on earth did his body manage to wake him up _now_?

He rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head.

A dull sound comes from his bedroom, followed by low, muffled muttering.

Bernd must’ve woken up too, then. If he’s been able to sleep at all.

Marc gets up, reaches for the t-shirt he ripped off at one point because it was too hot, and heads over to his bedroom.

More muttering, louder and angrier this time, including the words ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’.

“Bernd?” he calls, knocking gently on the door.

No response.

“Hey, are you okay in there?”

A muffled response that sounds like “yeah”.

“Can I come in?”

_“Whatever.”_

Carefully, Marc opens the door and steps inside the dark room. It takes some for his eyes to adjust to the light; with the covers pulled down, there’s no street light coming through the windows. He feels his way to the bed and sits down, reaching out to find Bernd.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asks as he hears shuffling, and the faint glimpse of eyes meets his own in the darkness.

The reflection disappears as Bernd flops back on the bed, shuffling some more.

“It’s fine.”

“How long has it been since you last took your painkillers?”

No response. Marc inches closer, curling up on the bed next to the other bloke.

“Bernd, is everything okay?”

 _“Perfect,”_ comes the response, muffled by what’s probably the pillow.

“I heard a noise and some muttering. Are you in pain?”

_“No.”_

“Is there anything I can do?”

_“Go away.”_

Marc sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“Goddamn it,” Bernd barks out, voice no longer muffled and suddenly much closer. “Which part of ‘go away’ don’t you understand?”

The contrast is great to just a few hours ago, when they were curled up on the sofa, laughing in sync to _Brooklyn 99_ as they play fought over the last slice of pizza and engaged in popcorn wars.

“Sorry, I’ll go, I just thought–”

“You _aren’t my mum_ , bloody realise that already,” Bernd hisses, his voice increasing in volume. “You’re already helping me with the basic stuff a twenty-six-year-old really should be capable of handling on his own, you don’t have to worry and fuss all over me as well. It’s not your responsibility that I get enough _sleep_. It’s not something you can force anyway!”

Bernd breaks off the rant with an angry growl and, by the sound of it, flops back on the bed, reaching for the pillow to scream into.

It’s frustrating enough to watch; Marc can’t imagine how it must be for Bernd – forced to neither work nor exercise for weeks, unable to do even the basic thing on his own, dependent on having someone around to help him. Marc tries to picture himself stuck at some stranger’s place, injured and bored and frustrated by all the unchanneled energy burning through his body. He can’t really see it, but he doesn’t doubt for a second he’d be insufferable as well.

He desperately wants to comfort Bernd, to say and do the right things, improve the situation if only a little, but he doubts he can make a difference right now. After all, it’s _his_ fault that Bernd’s landed here. _He’s_ the stranger Bernd has to ask for help. _He’s_ the reason for Bernd’s frustration. That Marc’s more than happy to oblige is irrelevant, and an attempt to comfort is probably just going to work against its intended purpose when it comes from him.

Marc only just manages to stop his hand from reaching out and pat Bernd’s shoulder as he gets up and leaves the room. For a brief moment, he’s tempted to fetch a glass of water and another dose of painkillers, just to put them on the bedside table so Bernd can take them if he wants to, but he eventually decides against it, throwing himself back down on the sofa.

It goes against every impulse in his body, but if Bernd wants him to leave him alone, the best thing he can do is to listen.


	5. Day Five

After Bernd’s reaction in the hospital, Marc had already expected him to leave after a day, maybe two, three tops. The next morning, after the nightly setback, he’s absolutely convinced that Bernd’s going to want to leave sometime that day. Maybe they’ll get his car and he’ll go against all common sense and just drive home. Or he’ll let the car stay at his parents’ and just take the train home to Stuttgart. Or he’ll let the car stay at Marc’s, but still go home.

Marc’s awake, staring at the ceiling, already mentally planning how they can solve it without too much stress on Bernd’s behalf when the door to his bedroom opens.

“Morning,” Bernd offers, and Marc’s so taken aback that he doesn’t get the chance to respond before Bernd’s disappeared into the bathroom.

“Morning,” he responds a few minutes later when Bernd re-emerges, pushing the duvet down to his waist and sitting up. “Did you get any more sleep?”

Bernd nods, helping himself to some sparkling water to swallow his next dose of painkillers.

“You know,” he muses after he’s swallowed the first pill, “I’m kinda feeling pancakes for breakfast.”

Marc presses his lips together. “You’re _feeling_ pancakes.”

Bernd leans back against the counter, swallowing another. “Yup.”

“I don’t think I have all the ingredients.”

“We can go get them.”

“I don’t even have a _recipe_ ,” Marc splutters, and Bernd grins as he shrugs.

“Not needed. I know it by heart.”

And Marc can’t think of another argument as to why they wouldn’t have pancakes for breakfast, so less than five minutes later, after Marc’s gotten dressed and tied Bernd’s shoelaces, they’re on their way to the store just around the corner. The contrast to the night before grows even bigger when Bernd steps out into the warm, but not boiling morning weather, comfortably dressed in loose shorts and a t-shirt that isn’t three sizes too large for his rather skinny frame.

Bernd insists on paying for the ingredients, as well as a few toiletries for himself and the week’s _Kicker_ for Marc.

“You know, to return the favour from the weekend,” he says as Marc packs it all into the backpack he always brings along when shopping.

“Not that you needed to return that particular favour, but thanks.”

Bernd grins again. “Not like I can return the favour of the massage, right?”

Marc fails to suppress his laughter.

“Well, not yet, anyway,” Bernd adds, and Marc just shakes his head at him.

“As if I’m expecting every favour returned when you’re all healed up.”

“You should. Think of everything I’m going to owe you. It’d be dumb not to demand some payback.”

“You won’t _owe_ me anything. That’s not how a friendship works. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Jesus,” Bernd groans. “You know what I mean. If I just disappeared and we never ever spoke again, you’d be disappointed, right? ‘Yeah, cool of you to make me dinner and wash my hair for a month, see you never’ – that wouldn’t sit right with you. It wouldn’t sit right with _anyone_.”

“That’s different,” Marc says and fishes his keys out of his pocket. “Staying in touch with each other can’t be considered a _favour_. It’s something that happens naturally because you want it to – _if_ you want to, that is.”

“So it’s all the same to you if we don’t stay in touch?”

Marc unlocks the door and pushes it open, letting Bernd inside first.

“I wouldn’t say it’s all the same to me, but I don’t think it’s something we can force, exactly. If it comes naturally to us both to stay in touch, we will, if not, we won’t. Doesn’t have to be bad. Doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“C’mon, though,” Bernd protests as they start toeing off their shoes. “Your god-honest opinion. It’d be weird to spend weeks not only living together, but doing everything together, only to never see each other again.”

Marc smiles and starts unpacking the groceries. “Growing attached already, Bernd?”

If he had had both arms free, Bernd probably would’ve crossed them in front of his chest or put his hands on his hips in a dramatic manner. Instead, he just sends Marc a look that looks suspiciously lot like a pout and says, “Don’t read too much into it. I’m just trying to point out how weird this situation already is and how it’d be even weirder if we suddenly never spoke again.”

Marc pauses, looking up from his backpack to meet Bernd’s eyes. “If you want to stay in touch, you can just say it. There’s nothing wrong about it.”

Bernd looks away, posture tensing, and suddenly becomes very focused on the rapper poster on Tony’s door. “Wouldn’t want you to get any weird ideas or anything.”

“Bernd, I’m not going to suddenly think you’re not straight and that we’re going to end up as boyfriends if you tell me that you want to stay in touch beyond your healing process. Blokes – mates – _are_ allowed to be affectionate and caring. Or, just, want to stay in touch, which doesn’t have to mean more than that we add each other on Facebook, essentially. It’s not a gay trait, nor unmasculine.”

Bernd worries his lip between his teeth and scratches the skin above his cast. Marc doubts he’ll get much more out of him at this point, so he finishes unpacking and starts looking for a bowl in the cupboards.

“Still up for those pancakes?” he asks casually when he’s found one.

Bernd nods. “I won’t be able to do much, though.”

“I can work with instructions.”

Which turns out to work surprisingly well, except that Bernd seems to get a kick out of criticising Marc’s flipping moves.

“Hey, I haven’t done this before!” Marc protests and clings to the spatula Bernd tries to wrestle from his hands with his good one. “Don’t judge just because I can’t flip them all fancy like you.”

“If I wasn’t injured, I’d show you how to do it _right_.”

“Shut up, nobody likes a show-off.”

“You don’t take my word for it?” Bernd challenges, raising an eyebrow.

“I do, I just think you’re laying on a bit thick since you can’t demonstrate your skills right now anyway.”

“I’ll show you, trust me. When I get this stupid cast off and regain my balance, I’ll flip the hell out of those pancakes.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Marc says and uses the spatula to bring the first pancake safely from the frying pan to the plate.

“You will,” Bernd insists.

They decide to continue where they left off on _Brooklyn 99_ the evening before while they eat, and go for two episodes while they’re at it, both of them too full to even think of something else to do. And when the second episode ends on a high note, they continue for another few episodes, since they’re already so comfortable and Bernd doesn’t feel like going to Leverkusen quite yet.

~*~

“Do you think your parents will still be out of the house?” Marc asks as they sit in the train a good while later.

“I hope they are. With a little luck, they will be. Mum sometimes takes the last few hours off if she’s worked enough overtime, but it doesn’t happen often.”

“So the plan is to basically just… get the car and get the hell out of there?”

“More or less.”

It doesn’t make much of a difference to Marc; he doesn’t know Bernd’s family anyway. But he notices that in course of the train ride, Bernd’s nervousness gradually grows worse. He’s scratching his left arm more often than not, his legs start shaking, his jaw works as he varies between gnawing on his lip and clenching his teeth.

Next, they take a bus to a little outside of the city centre, walk for a while in what seems to be one of the nicer areas of the city, before they take to the right on a car-narrow, paved road with low hedges on each side. And just ahead lies a big, classic white house with a large garage and a wide balcony, and, just like Bernd’s mentioned, a used but well kept BMW parked a little to the side on the paving.

“Ah, my beauty’s still here,” Bernd comments and presses the key button, tossing it over to Marc, and running his fingertips over the smooth hood of the black, still shiny car. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Marc does his best to hide his grin and opens the door to the driver’s seat.

“You better not be an absolute shit driver, by the way,” Bernd says, like it only just now occurred to him why _exactly_ they’re stuck with each other for the time being. “The only reason I’m letting you drive her after that stunt you pulled on me, is because I can’t drive myself.”

“No need to worry,” Marc reassures him, “I only mess up when driving my parents’ car, and that’s only when starting it. Do you need any help getting in?”

“Don’t be daft. I’m not _that_ crippled.”

Marc rolls his eyes and gets in.

He’s just closed the door when he hears wheels on the ground, and Bernd, who was just about to open the door on his side, pauses, _freezes_.

A brand-new Mercedes-Benz, smooth, silver and gleaming, _glides_ past them and towards the garage, the door rolling up automatically. Marc bends down, tilts his head up, sees the strained expression on Bernd’s face.

Just what they wanted to avoid.

Marc only hears the loud _smack_ as the door of the car is being pushed close, then the faint sound of stilettos on stone. A tall, blonde woman in her late fifties comes into view, wearing a dark grey trouser suit and carrying a black, sleek briefcase, striding towards Bernd. Either it’s the vibe coming from her business clothes and her short, tight hairstyle, or she’s very displeased with her son.

Bernd goes to meet her halfway.

Her voice reaches all the way into the car, but not loud and clear enough for Marc to make out more than that it must be German, emphasised by the great contrast when Bernd switches to Russian. She gestures towards his arm, which Bernd seems to shrug off as nothing, and her voice gets sharper, more urgent. Bernd looks away, his jaw clenching.

Marc gives up on trying to follow the conversation when he can’t understand what they’re saying, but he doesn’t miss how Bernd’s mum suddenly seems to grow angry, gestures becoming wilder, voice raising in volume. Bernd seems to just stand there and take it without objecting.

Until he suddenly snaps, and all but screams back at her. Even from Marc’s distance, the shock on her face can’t be mistaken. She stares at Bernd as if this is the first time ever that he’s raising his voice at her, like she’s never actually seen him angry or provoked before. Like that isn’t her son before her.

Bernd halts in mid sentence, catching his breath and sucking his lip into his mouth, like he suddenly realises the same. For a brief moment, the world stops turning as they stare at each other, mother and son both too floored to react appropriately to the situation.

And then Bernd’s mum snaps as well – eyebrows furrowing, mouth pressing into a hard line – and slaps the palm of her free hand against Bernd’s cheek.

Marc jumps in his seat, pressing his hand to his mouth, forcing back a strangled sound.

Bernd freezes completely for a second, enough for his mum to realise what she’s done and cover her mouth just like Marc. By the time she’s managed to collect herself, however, Bernd’s already on his way back to the car with quick steps.

“Bernd Leno, you get back here!”

“Forget it.”

“Where do you think you’re going? You can’t drive with that arm!”

“I’ve got a mate to drive me!” Bernd snaps right back, before he all but throws himself into the passenger seat, wincing as it sends a jolt up his injured arm, and hisses at Marc to get the car in motion.

Marc doesn’t need to be told twice.

During the whole drive back home, Bernd completely ignores him, leaning against the window and staring emptily at the road and the cars passing by them on the autobahn. Marc catches himself casting glances over at Bernd’s still frame every other minute or so, but each time, it seems like the other bloke hasn’t moved an inch.

They’re passing the border to Düsseldorf when Marc perceives a faint sniffling sound. He glances over at Bernd again, taking in his red nose, red-rimmed eyes and the silent tears rolling down his cheeks. They must’ve been rolling for a while already. Marc swallows, desperately wanting to ask, or at the very least say something that’ll help in some way, but he can’t think of anything that won’t sound lame or empty. And even if he did, he doubts he’d reach through to Bernd at this point.

Only when he’s parked the car and turned off the engine, and Bernd still hasn’t made a move to get out, does Marc speak again, voice low and gentle.

“Bernd?”

The injured arm twitches.

“We’re back.”

A weak nod.

“Do you want me to take your bag for you?”

Another nod.

They walk up to the flat in silence. Once inside, Bernd just mutters something about being tired and needing to lie down for a while, and Marc knows better than to ask. Instead, he lets Bernd escape to the bedroom and sits down by the kitchen table to continue his assignments. He’s got work the next day and chances are, he won’t be getting much else done, so he needs to write a few pages before then in order not to fall behind.

It’s hard to concentrate when he knows that Bernd isn’t doing well, but after several minutes of staring into nothing, picturing that palm meeting Bernd’s check, Marc mentally slaps himself in the face. Worrying won’t do him any good and it won’t help Bernd either, so he puts on some music that’ll get his motivation flowing and tries to block out everything else.

~*~

Marc doesn’t stop until his stomach starts to protest, and if he feels the hunger creeping up on him, Bernd must feel it too. He stands up, stretches his stiff muscles and heads over to the bedroom.

“Hey, Bernd?” he calls softly as he knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”

No reaction.

“I was just wondering… I’m getting kind of hungry and I can imagine that you’re feeling it too.”

The muffled sound of duvet and sheets rustling reaches his ears.

After the rather negative reaction the night before, he’s not particularly keen on invading Bernd’s privacy without a clear consent. Still, everyone needs to eat, and Bernd’s supposed to heal, so he definitely shouldn’t skip any meals, Marc figures.

“I’ll make us some soup, okay? And let you know when I’m done?”

It takes Bernd a moment to respond, and it’s only a weak, faint sound that reminds of ‘okay’, but Marc considers that more than enough.

He puts on music in the background as he works, hoping that’ll somehow lure Bernd out, but not a sound comes from the bedroom. When Marc’s done and he still hasn’t seen any sign of Bernd coming back out, he fills up two bowls and a basket with rolls, and goes to knock on the door again.

“I really don’t want to bother you if you need to be alone, but you should at least eat regularly,” he says to the closed door, and hopes that Bernd will listen to him.

The bed squeaks then, he hears the duvet rustle, and takes it as a good sign.

Bernd’s sitting upright with his back against the wall when Marc enters. The duvet is pulled back and his arm is resting on a tower of pillows. He looks even worse than when they got back from Leverkusen – pale and drained, eyes red and swollen, his skin sore from the tip of his nose to his mouth. Marc doesn’t comment, just sends him a small smile and places the food on his desk while he looks for his laptop support.

“It’s not really meant for plates, but it serves the purpose,” he says as he puts it in Bernd’s lap and hands him the food next.

“Thanks,” Bernd says, not quite able to smile back – but he does try, given by the way his mouth twitches.

“You’re welcome,” Marc says, reaching for his own bowl and making himself comfortable on the bed.

They eat in silence, but it feels strangely comfortable. Bernd eats and that’s the important thing, he even finishes before Marc and is left staring into his bowl.

“I’m sorry I keep snapping so much at you.”

Marc would’ve jumped if it wasn’t for the low tone and volume of Bernd’s voice.

“Don’t be. I get that this can’t be easy for you, I won’t blame you for having mood swings.”

“Doesn’t make it any less pathetic.”

“It’s not. I get why you’d think that, but it’s not.”

Bernd shrugs.

Marc slides off the bed to bring their bowls and spoons back to the kitchen, and because the clothes have been drying for more than twenty-four hours, he takes them down while he’s at it.

Bernd’s lying on his back again when Marc comes back to put the clothes in the closet, staring emptily up at the ceiling.

“Just so you know where to find them, I’m leaving your things on the desk, yeah?”

Bernd nods.

“Would you like me to leave again?”

A shrug.

“I’m going to take your silence as a sign that I should, then.”

“You don’t… uhm, you don’t have to. If you don’t want to. I mean, do as you please, but. You can stay. If you’ve got nothing better to do, or. You know.” Bernd scratches the skin above his cast and pointedly avoids looking at Marc.

Marc closes the bedroom door and sits down on the bed, drawing up his legs and crossing them.

“That looked pretty rough today,” he says, voice low, suspecting that it would do Bernd some good to talk about it, whether or not he wants to.

Bernd just brushes it off.

“Has she ever hit you before?”

“No. Not that that could be categorised as hitting – it was merely a slap. Didn’t even hurt.”

“Must’ve still stung.”

“Nah.”

“Still doesn’t excuse the action.”

“I guess it makes sense for an outsider to see it that way.”

“Bernd,” Marc sighs. “I know you think you did something bad and that I can’t understand how bad it was, but no matter what it was, it doesn’t make it okay for her to get physical. It can’t ever get that bad, even if you killed someone.”

The lack of response doesn’t surprise Marc anymore.

Bernd starts scratching his forearm again.

“You mentioned before that you’d had some issues with your parents.”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t because of your sexuality, was it?”

“It was.”

“How… how exactly did they react?”

“They, uh… Not going to lie, they wanted to kick me out. Not that they’d ever actually do it, at least I don’t think so, but they were very, very upset. My mother had dreamt for ages that Dani and I would get married and have beautiful little blonde babies, but Dani just laughed every time Mum brought it up. Until we turned eighteen, and she didn’t find it as funny anymore.”

“So Dani forced you out?”

“Not the word I’d use. Set me straight, is more like it. Or… well, not really, but. You know. And she was right, of course, because ever since my parents got over the first shock, they’ve tried their best to be supportive. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but they do try. I can’t say it makes you forget the sound of ‘I want you out of my house’, but it does make it easier to forgive.”

Bernd swallows and scratches his forearm harder.

“How about your friends? Your teammates?”

“If any of them reacted particularly negatively, I know nothing of it. A few teammates thought it was kind of weird at first, but after a few weeks at practice with no funny business, they got over it.”

“I guess that’s something.”

“Certainly could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“How did you actually do it, though? Come out to your teammates?”

Marc smiles to himself. “Do you remember back when _Game of Thrones_ came out? This big hype, no one talked about anything else?”

“Who doesn’t.”

“There was this one time at practice, when one of the boys started speaking of the show, and the discussions spun on until they were talking about who’d they rather do and all that.”

“Sounds familiar,” Bernd snorts.

Marc chuckles. “I did my best to keep myself out of it, but I was at the end of the row at _one_ point. I tried faking it by going ‘I haven’t seen the show’, but of course some of them knew that I had, so that didn’t work. And I thought hell, if I don’t want people to make a big deal out of it, I shouldn’t either, so I treated it more or less like they had by going, ‘I’d fuck Robb Stark’.”

Bernd snorts out a laugh and presses his good hand to his face. “That’s the lamest thing I’ve heard in my life.”

“It did the job!”

“But _Robb Stark_? Why go for a baby wolf pup when there’s _Jaime Lannister_?”

“I said the first name that came to mind!”

“Bullshit,” Bernd grins. “It’s the ones you like the best that you pay the most attention to. Those are the names you remember, especially in a show like _Thrones_ where everyone and their mum has one official name and two additional nicknames.”

“So? Robb Stark isn’t _that_ bad, he’s really rather handsome,” Marc says and nudges his knee against Bernd’s leg.

“Still more or less a kid in that show. I thought you’d go for a _man_.”

“Need I remind you we were, what, nineteen when it came out?”

“Still makes you old enough to want full-grown men, not pubertal boys.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh, but question. If you _had_ to pick a girl, which one of them would you go for?”

“I wouldn’t pick any! I’m not asking you to pick a bloke.”

“C’mon, humour me. Say it was custom, and you had to marry for the sake of your family and position and politics and whatnot. You know, like Renly. Who’d you choose?”

“Jesus,” Marc exclaims and leans his head back.

“If it’s _that_ hard, go for perks and not looks. Who’d you pick?”

“If we’re talking perks? Sansa, probably. Winterfell and direwolf puppies don’t sound too bad. Plus, you’re far away from all the drama in the south.”

Bernd snorts out another laugh. “It’s fuck cold, though.”

“There are ways to keep warm.”

Bernd wriggles his eyebrows.

“ _Other_ ways than the naked ones, you dolt. Sansa wouldn’t be very impressed.”

“Why, can’t get it up with a girl?” Bernd teases and nudges his leg against Marc’s knee.

“Like you can get it up with a guy,” Marc counters and nudges back.

Bernd flushes bright red and looks away.

“Anyway, wolf pups and the lack of southerner drama can make up for a lot of disadvantages,” Marc finishes, stretching out his legs. “Who’d you marry?”

“Dunno.”

“Come on, Bernd. You told me to humour _you_.”

Bernd shrugs. “I liked Khaleesi. At least before she got all entitled and screamed about fire and blood in every other sentence. But I guess Margaery is cute too.”

“She’s not too bad,” Marc agrees. “Plus, if you marry her, you get to fuck her brother.”

“Jerk,” Bernd mutters and reaches for a pillow, throwing it in Marc’s direction. “See, you shouldn’t have picked Sansa anyway. Margaery’s a much better fit for you.”

Marc throws the pillow right back. “Not for Margaery, I’m not.”

“Okay, perfect deal: I marry Margaery, you take care of Loras for me.”

“And we all share Renly?”

“Oh God,” Bernd groans. “Fine, whatever. He’s gonna have his hands full with you two anyway.”

Marc snickers and lies back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “You know…” he begins, “all this talk of _Game of Thrones_ kind of makes me want to rewatch the first season.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got it on DVD if you want to.”

Bernd perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh _man_. I haven’t seen it since it came out.”

Marc grins. “I’ll go put on the popcorn.”

~*~

“Not a bad word about your sofa, because it’s really damn comfortable to chill on, but how’s it working out for you sleeping here?”

They’re nearing the end of the fourth episode, and it’s starting to get late. Marc’s been close to nodding off quite a few times already, and whereas they talked their way through the first three episodes, the fourth has been rather quiet, except for the occasional comment.

Marc shrugs. “It’s not so bad. Unusual, but I’m getting used to it.”

“ _Unusual_. Quit the crap, Marc, that’s another word for ‘I can’t sleep for shit’.”

“I’m sleeping just fine.”

“Still isn’t as good as sleeping in a proper bed.”

“Exactly, so I’m not letting you swap with me, because you need all the good sleep you can get when you’re supposed to heal.”

Bernd scratches his forearm. “I wasn’t thinking swapping, exactly…”

On the screen, Catelyn’s seizer of Tyrion fades into the end credits. Bernd clears his throat.

“I mean, that bed feels way too big for one person anyway. It would easily fit two comfortably.”

“You don’t have to share just because you feel that you have to. I’m sleeping just fine here on the sofa, don’t worry.”

“I don’t feel that I have to. But I’m not…” Bernd breaks off with a sigh and rubs his good hand over his face. “I’m not sleeping all too well on my own. You know, the ‘new place, new bed’ and all that crap? It’d feel more like a sleepover if you slept there, too.”

“You sure?”

“‘Course I’m sure.”

“You wouldn’t be uncomfortable?”

“Jesus, Marc. You didn’t jump me when we were more or less naked in the shower together, I’m not worried you’re gonna do it in bed.”

In the short time he’s known Bernd, Marc hasn’t exactly gotten the impression that he’d do or say something just to be nice, and Marc doubts he’d start now. He turns off the TV and the DVD player, then holds out his hand for Bernd to grab.

“Come on, then.”

They brush their teeth together, and Marc helps Bernd put toothpaste on his toothbrush, because even _that_ is hard to do simply and effectively when you only have one hand available. And because changing clothes takes twice as long when Bernd tries to do it on his own, Marc insists on helping him with that as well, ignoring Bernd’s arguments about needing to be able to manage things on his own when Marc’s at work.

“There’s no reason I can’t help you when I _am_ around,” Marc counters and either Bernd’s stubbornness is starting to wear off, or he’s getting too tired to argue with that statement.

Marc then goes to fetch his pillow and duvet while Bernd tries to find a comfortable position that’ll give enough support for his arm.

“How long has it been since you last took your painkillers?” Marc says as he watches Bernd adjusting the pillows _again_.

“Must’ve been this morning.”

“That long?” Marc drops his duvet on the bed. “I’ll go get them for you.”

“No need, I hardly feel anything.”

“You sure? Didn’t they say you should take them for a few days at least?”

“Yeah,” Bernd says, dragging the word out. “But it’s been a few days already, and I haven’t felt anything since this morning. I wanna try without.”

Marc crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Relax,” Bernd says, almost fondly, and rolls his eyes. “If I feel anything, I’ll kick you in the shin and make you go get them for me. What do you say?”

“As long as you’re not in any unnecessary pain, it’s all the same to me.”

“Jesus Christ, Marc,” Bernd groans as Marc flops down on the bed. “You seriously need to stop being so kind and pretend that all I say and do is okay. If you think I’m being a dick, you _are_ allowed to tell me.”

Marc chuckles and pulls the duvet up to his shoulders. “Or maybe I just see through this sarcastic, emotionally distanced facade you try to put up, and want to give you the love and care you need.”

He feels Bernd shake his head, and can only imagine the eye-roll.

“But if you do kick me in the shin when you want your painkillers, I will kick you right back–”

“That’s more like it.”

“–you know, just so you’ll know that I’m awake and got the message.”

Bernd groans and elbows him in the shoulder.

~*~

They fall into an easy routine after that.

As it turns out, sleeping in the same bed works surprisingly well for them both, and if Marc wakes up with Bernd’s leg draped over one of his own, or Bernd’s inched closer during the night, Bernd doesn’t seem to notice, and Marc doesn’t mention it. He gets up early to work on his assignments, letting Bernd sleep for a little longer until he too comes stumbling out, asking for breakfast.

When Bernd has to be home alone while Marc’s at work, he always has drinks that won’t require two hands within arm’s reach, as well as a snack or two in case he gets hungry. Sometimes he looks up recipes online and texts Marc a shopping list, which makes their dinners better and better by each day. Bernd turns out to be a surprisingly good cook, and whenever one hand is enough, he helps out. It’s usually enjoyed on the sofa, with more than just one episode of their shows on the screen.

Every other day, Marc helps Bernd shave and shower, and Bernd takes full advantage of the fact that Marc’s easily persuaded into giving massages. Dressing and undressing get better though, and Bernd insists on doing it on his own every time Marc asks him. By the end of the first week, he’s not even noticeably slower than what he would’ve been with his left arm working.

More than once, Marc has to praise himself lucky that they’re so equal in size and colours that Bernd can wear practically anything Marc hands him, be it t-shirts, hoodies, jeans, sweatpants or even boxers. Granted, Bernd had frowned at him at first, but Marc had cocked his head and asked, “How long do you plan to wear the only two pairs you’ve got?” Bernd had just looked to the side and pressed his lips together, then grabbed the pair Marc was holding out and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.

They go for walks when it’s not boiling hot outside, distracting Bernd from his inability to work out. They have beer in the park, enjoying the late summer sun. They talk football – criticise the national team’s performance in Russia, complain about Bayern’s dominance, discuss the upcoming Bundesliga season, get each other all worked up by setting up their own tables. Neither of them puts Bayern as the winning team.

Marc stops worrying that Bernd will snap and suddenly want to go home the next morning, and Bernd doesn’t even bring up the topic, just fills the extra space in the small flat with his presence, making one chair at the kitchen table, one end of the sofa, one side of Marc’s bed his own.

Not that Marc really minds – he likes seeing Bernd comfortable and relaxed in this new, temporary home. And watching him spread out on the sofa with his feet hanging off the armrest like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him, dressed in the loosest sweatpants Marc owns, a wide t-shirt Marc’s got reserved for sleeping only and one of Marc’s favourite hoodies? That certainly pushes buttons Marc didn’t know he had and doesn’t quite recognise.

The longer Bernd stays, the more in sync they get and the more natural it comes to them to eat, sleep, shower and hang out together. Marc even catches himself looking for Bernd at work, works more effectively on his assignments in order to have more time together, and even says no to a party or two in favour of TV shows and popcorn.

It’s only temporary, he tries to remind himself whenever things seem to go surprisingly smoothly. There’s no need to become attached, just think of how sick you’re going to be of each other once Bernd leaves – you’re going to be _happy_ you don’t have to spend another second together again.

Funny how that feeling of annoyance and boredom never seems to kick in, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny heads-up: the update dates have been planned in detail and they’ll still be regular, but from now on, they won’t be every other day. This is to fit the pace of the story.
> 
> EDIT (1/9/18): I almost always read through the chapters a while after I’ve posted them, just in case there are mistakes I’ve overlooked or something doesn’t flow quite right. The edits I make in retrospect never make a big difference to the story itself and the action and/or meaning never change. However, I had to fix more than just a few typos on this chapter, so I’m mentioning it here just in case someone rereads it and goes ‘wait, this isn’t exactly the way I remember it’.


	6. Day Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the wonderful feedback I’ve been getting, you never fail to make my day! I have a tumblr post for this story [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/tyskerunge/177316590442) if you want to spread some more love, and there’s a WIP ask meme [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/tyskerunge/177734449202) if you want to ask me questions about the writing process. Or, you know, just hit me up with anything related to Steno and/or the story.

“Man, you have no idea how much I’m looking forward to getting this motherfucker off,” Bernd says on the second Sunday at Marc’s, while they’re brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed, glowering down at his cast. “Just being able to _roll over_ in my sleep is going to be heaven. And use both hands when brushing my teeth. And _tie my own shoes_.”

“Less than twelve more hours,” Marc reassures him as he rinses his toothbrush and puts it back into the cup.

“Not a minute too soon,” Bernd mutters.

Marc’s made sure he doesn’t have work the next day, so that he’ll have the whole day free to drive Bernd to the hospital in Mönchengladbach and back. Sure, it’ll probably take them less than two hours if the traffic isn’t too bad, but he’d be stressed about making work even if he had five. He doesn’t want to put that kind of stress on Bernd.

“I take it you’ll go back home after tomorrow, then?” Marc asks when they’re lying in bed a few minutes later; Bernd on his back with a pillow supporting his arm, which he’s been nagging about for the past few days; Marc on his side, propped up on his elbow, facing him.

Bernd shrugs his right shoulder.

“I doubt I’ll be able to drive despite the cast coming off. My fingers are still numb.”

“No changes at all?”

“Nothing. They still barely twitch when I try to move them.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“At least you’ll be able to work on your motions from tomorrow on.”

“Yeah…”

“And you’re still welcome to stay here until your hand feels strong enough for you to handle basic things like food, hygiene and driving on your own.”

Bernd falls silent for a moment.

“… I didn’t even consider that that might not be okay.”

“Good,” Marc says and smiles, even though Bernd can barely see it in the dark. “Then all of this hasn’t been for nothing, you’re finally feeling at home here.”

“Jeez…”

But Marc can tell that Bernd’s smiling too, a small and fond one. They’ve definitely come a long way since the day of the accident.

~*~

“So, what kind of quality music do you listen to when driving?” Bernd asks when they’re on their way the next morning, flipping through the Spotify app on his phone.

“Gladbach fan songs.”

“ _Real_ music,” Bernd groans.

“I don’t drive all that often, really. And when I do, I tend to put on the radio instead.”

“Sometimes you’re boring as fuck, do you know that?” Bernd says and puts on a song that reminds Marc of Tony’s rap music, but which he otherwise doesn’t recognise.

“You’ve reminded me enough to last a lifetime already.”

“You’ve had it coming.”

With that, Bernd leans his head back and closes his eyes, nodding along to the beat.

They’ve driven three songs in comfortable silence when the music’s interrupted by a loud, shrilling sound. Marc jumps in his seat and his grip on the wheel tightens.

“Sweet Jesus.”

“What in the shit,” Bernd mutters and squints at his phone. Then he straightens abruptly, alerted, eyes blown wide.

“Bernd?”

“It’s my mum.”

“Are you going to answer it?”

“It’s my _mum_. Fuck no.”

“You should take it. It could be important.”

“I doubt it.”

“Bernd, come on–”

“No!”

“Well, at least make it stop!”

As if on cue, the ringtone stops and the rap music comes back on.

“See? She wasn’t even patient,” Bernd mutters.

“Depends on how fast your voicemail kicks in.”

“Not that fast.”

The shrilling ringtone begins again, and this time, it’s Bernd who jumps.

“Just answer it already.”

“I have no idea what she’s calling about.”

“Then answer her in Russian if you’re so worried that I’ll hear something you’d rather keep private.”

“That’s not what I mea–”

“I really don’t care right now. Answer it. She’s trying twice in a minute, it must be important.”

Bernd mutters something under his breath, then swipes his thumb across the screen and answers in a low voice. He keeps the conversation exclusively in Russian, but it’s mostly his mum who does the talking anyway; Bernd’s part is more or less reduced to what Marc assumes must be yeses and noes, accompanied by the occasional short sentence. At least he keeps his volume moderate, so it can’t be too bad. He would’ve shouted if it was bad, Marc tells himself.

Eventually, Bernd hangs up. He shoves the phone into his pocket with a sigh and leans back, though this time not in contentment.

“Are you okay?” Marc asks after a while.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Bernd nodding.

“What did she want?”

“Just. Ask where I was, how I was managing with the arm.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I didn’t want her to know, but that she didn’t need to worry.”

“She _is_ going to worry when you put it like that.”

Bernd shrugs.

“Did you at least tell her that you didn’t have to deal with everything on your own?”

“… Yeah.” Bernd scratches his forearm. “Only way to get her off my back.”

“I hope that didn’t worry her more than it calmed her.”

“Hard to tell.”

Bernd uses his ‘I’m done talking about this’ voice, and fishes out his phone again, putting the music back on.

Marc takes the hint and lets him enjoy it in silence.

~*~

Bernd insists that he can deal with some simple cast removal on his own, so Marc stays in the reception in the meantime – an open and light area, with benches scattered around and the reception desk in the middle. He texts Dani, then Tony who wants to know if his so-called friend is still visiting, because he’s planning to come home the next week. Marc specifies that Bernd’s indeed just a friend and nothing more, and Tony’s only response to that is the smug emoji that looks like it’s wriggling its eyebrows.

Jerk, Marc mutters, albeit with a fond smile on his face, and locks his phone.

A man suddenly comes rushing through the automatic doors, panting, pale as a ghost but with cheeks bright red, his tie askew and his suit jacket hanging open, almost falling off one shoulder. He all but crashes into the reception desk, gasps more than speaks when he talks to the woman there, voice high-pitched and raspy.

The only words Marc is able to catch are ‘daughter’, then ‘school’ and ‘accident’ in what sounds like a sentence.

The woman at the desk listens patiently as he gives her his personal information, then she points him in the direction of the ER.

The man practically sprints down the corridor.

Marc frowns.

Sure, that girl is probably still in primary school, so her parents must’ve been alerted immediately, be it by the school or the hospital itself. Marc’s never tested in practice if his parents would be alerted if something were to happen to him, now that he’s supposedly all grown up, but if it was critical, they would be, wouldn’t they? Severe car accidents and all that?

But Bernd’s mum looked genuinely surprised the other day. She didn’t know about his arm. She didn’t know he’d been admitted, period. And unless all the relationships in the Leno family are totally messed up and they never speak to each other about anything, Bernd’s father or any other family members can’t have been alerted either.

Maybe a broken wrist just isn’t severe enough to alert any emergency contacts.

Bernd comes back shortly after, skin pale and left forearm significantly skinnier.

“Are you okay?” Marc asks, feeling the urge to put his arm around Bernd’s waist to support him.

“Yeah, just. Dizzy, kind of.”

“You need anything to drink?”

“We’ve got water bottles in the car…”

“Alright, then.”

“Just…”

Bernd reaches out and Marc wraps his arm around him by reflex.

“Bernd?”

“It’s fine, I just… Can we…? I’m just a bit light-headed.”

“Nauseous?”

“Maybe a little…”

“Do you need to sit down?”

Bernd frowns, shakes his head, but then presses his good hand to his forehead. “Yeah, uh… Sitting down wo… wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Okay. Come on, there are plenty of benches here.”

“I don’t… We must… The pharmacy first. But I guess… I mean, I can…”

Okay, that’s a no, Marc realises as Bernd suddenly leans heavier against him, gaze flickering. Quickly, he guides them over to the nearest bench, easing him down on it, back flat against the surface and his legs up.

“Still with me, Bernd?”

Bernd nods, but it’s slow and his gaze is still blurry.

“Don’t forget to breathe, okay? With your stomach.”

Bernd takes a few deep, controlled breaths.

“Good. Dizziness wearing off?”

Bernd swallows and draws another few breaths. “A little?”

“Did it hurt to remove the cast?”

“Not particularly.”

“Uncomfortable, unpleasant? Distressing?”

“… A little, maybe.”

“You certainly looked ready to pass out just now, so we’ll just stay here for a moment, okay? Head down, legs high. Get the blood pumping all the way up to your brain. Yeah?”

Bernd nods.

“And I can get you that thing you needed from the pharmacy. Do you remember what it was?”

“There’s this fancy word for it. Not orthodox, but ortho-something. Ortho…sis? It’s to support the wrist for the next four weeks. With a metal splint in it.”

“Orthosis. Metal splint. Got it. Will you be fine here for a few minutes?”

Bernd nods again.

“And even if you start feeling all fine again, just stay down until I’m back. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. This won’t take long, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Marc doesn’t particularly feel like leaving Bernd alone like that, but if something happens, at least there are people at the reception who will notice and help him. As long as he stays down, though, that should be enough.

He asks for help to find the right orthosis at the pharmacy, testing it on his own forearm to make sure that it’s the right size and fit – another perk of having the same body type. On the way back, he swings past the kiosk and gets an ordinary coke and a few plates of chocolate. Water’s good, but Bernd needs to get his blood sugar up. Besides, he deserves a treat.

Bernd frowns up at him when he comes back with a plastic bag that’s bulging too much for it to contain just one item.

“I only needed the wrist thing.”

“You needed a few other things as well. Do you feel well enough to stand up?”

“Yeah. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Marc makes sure they don’t hurry it as much as Bernd seems to want to, and supports him all the way back to the car. Bernd sighs in relief when he’s back in his car seat and Marc eases it back a bit.

“Feeling dizzy again?”

“Just a tiny bit,” Bernd says and swallows. “Not like in there.”

“Good.” Marc slams the door shut and gets in on the driver’s side. “Now, I’ll help you get the orthosis on, okay? Hold out your hand for me.”

“Which one?”

They share a look, and Marc suppresses a smile as Bernd winks and holds out his left one.

“Look how pretty and yellow my whole arm is,” Bernd says, and points to the very distinct line below his elbow, where the almost sickening yellow colour of his forearm meets his otherwise pale skin. “That antiseptic sure is a tough bitch.”

“We’ll give her a good scrub in the shower, see how tough she is then,” Marc says, and gently pulls the orthosis over Bernd’s hand. Bernd grimaces a couple of times, but relaxes visibly once Marc has adjusted it properly.

“And since you need to both drink and get your blood sugar up,” Marc continues, reaching into the bag again, “I got you a coke, and some chocolate too if you want any.”

“Wow,” Bernd grins. “Your mum tendencies are showing again.”

“You almost passed out in there. Blood to the brain and sugar are two very effective ways to prevent that from happening. Now be a good boy and drink some.”

Bernd looks from Marc, to the coke he’s holding out, and back to Marc.

“Hate to break it to you, but you still need to help me with the bottles.”

“Right. Of course.”

_Pssssht._

“So what’s the update?” Marc asks as they’re back out on the autobahn, and Bernd is happily munching on his chocolate.

“Nothing surprising, really,” Bernd says and licks chocolate off his fingers. “I’m supposed to take the ortho thing off from time to time and move my hand and fingers, and I can do whatever I want as long as it doesn’t hurt. Oh, but no weight above two kilos or so, which is a joke, because I can’t even hold a few grams of damn chocolate.”

Bernd nods to the plate in his lap, and Marc chuckles.

“No, seriously, I can’t even pinch my thumb and forefinger,” Bernd continues and fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Also, I got a new bandage, but I still have the strips on, so I’m probably gonna need your help taking them off in a week’s time.”

“And the stings?”

“They’re supposed to go away on their own.”

“So, Monday next week, then?”

“Yup.”

Bernd puts on his rap music again and directs his attention back to his chocolate.

“Dani told me to greet you, by the way,” Marc says after a while. “I texted her while I was waiting. She hopes you’re healing well.”

“That’s nice of her. Tell her I said thanks.”

“Consider it done.”

“So, what other extremely interesting things did you get up to while I got my arm freed from the hard, white prison?” Bernd asks, licking the last of the chocolate from his fingers.

Marc snorts. “Sat. Stared at the walls.”

“Wow.”

“Oh, and there was this man, came sprinting in like his life depended on it, almost falling over the woman at the counter. Not that I blame him, from what I heard it seemed like his daughter had been in an accident.”

“Shit. That’s rough.”

“Yeah. It got me wondering, though.”

“About what?”

“You know your mum, right? It crossed my mind that she seemed genuinely surprised the other day, when we went to get the car. To see your arm, that you were injured at all.”

“So?”

“I’ve always thought that emergency contacts were alerted automatically, but clearly not.”

“Hell if I know. If it’s bad enough, maybe, but I doubt breaking your arm can be considered an emergency.”

“So they didn’t ask you whether they should contact anyone?”

Bernd shrugs. “All I know is that the day of the surgery, I got this scheme to fill out with personal information, and that was it.”

“You didn’t have to list any emergency contacts?”

“Sure I did.”

“Yet your mum–”

“Who said I had to list any of my parents?”

“Oh. Right. Guess I just assumed…” Marc trails off, once again taken aback by the bad relationship between Bernd and his parents. It sure must be bad if he didn’t think he could put them down as his emergency contacts, even. “Who did you list, though?” he asks instead.

“My brother,” Bernd mutters after a moment.

“Is your relationship with him better than with your parents?”

Bernd clenches his jaw, then he turns up the volume on the music and leans his head against the window.

Marc’s gotten so used to Bernd’s silence that he knows better than to pry.

It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t worry.

~*~

Marc skips his assignments altogether that day, in favour of cooking, chilling and _Game of Thrones_ with Bernd, figuring they could both need it after the hospital visit. They’ve ploughed through more than three and a half seasons in the two weeks Bernd’s been there, as well as a few easy sitcoms between the heavier episodes, and it’s simply a great way to spend time together. It more or less eliminates the fear of awkward silence, but they still have the chance to talk if they want to, since they’ve both seen the show before.

The area around the TV has more or less turned in to a fort in that time – the part of the sofa that can be pulled out to a bed has stayed that way since Marc last slept on it, and every morning, Bernd drags his duvet – _Marc’s_ , really, the one with the Gladbach logo, which Bernd hasn’t made a move to change yet – into the living room to make himself and his arm comfortable.

He kind of reminds Marc of a kid on Christmas morning, hanging around in his sleepwear and wrapped up in his duvet while eating breakfast in front of the screen. Even when Marc can’t join, Bernd’s stayed in the same room, the TV on in the background with the sound low, scrolling on his phone, flipping through books from Marc’s highly limited library, or simply dozing.

Marc’s caught himself pausing when he sits at the kitchen table working, rubbing his jaw to hide his fond smile, the urge to join in growing. Then he’s clenched his teeth, pulled his headphones over his ears and forced himself to stay hard and focused on his assignments, knowing he’ll have the chance to join later if he’s been effective enough during the day.

Today is different, though, he reminds himself as they finish the finale of the fourth season, and Bernd sends him a puppy-eyed look, silently asking if they can start the fifth right away.

“Fine,” Marc says as he gets up to switch discs, “but that’s the last one. I have work in the morning, and you need your rest after the day you’ve had.”

Bernd just beams at him and snuggles deeper into his duvet, and Marc shakes his head with a fond smile, trying not to get caught up in how _adorable_ Bernd looks all curled up and comfortable like that. A man halfway through his twenties shouldn’t be able to look like a boy who gets to stay up late on his twelfth birthday.

The episode bears evidence of being the first in a new season, and Marc catches himself suppressing more than one yawn, needing to concentrate not to nod off – until there suddenly are naked guy-on-guy kisses on the screen, a scene which Marc had completely forgotten about.

“Hey, Marc?” Bernd asks, just as the two are interrupted in the middle of the snog.

“Mmmm.”

Bernd shifts a little awkwardly. “Did you quit playing because you’re gay?”

Well, that sure came out of the blue. Marc shrugs, keeping his eyes on the screen. “The thought’s never really crossed my mind, if I’m honest.”

“Why not?”

“It felt completely natural to quit when I did, I guess.”

“Didn’t you say you quit because it demanded more than you were willing to give?”

“That it did, but I can’t recall thinking of my sexuality in particular.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. Like I’ve said, it started becoming more work and pressure than fun and enjoyment. That was the main reason. But I guess I also didn’t find the idea of being a public person very appealing. I didn’t want to be the kind of person people want to know stuff about.”

“So your sexuality did play a role.”

“No?”

“Okay, if I put it like this, then,” Bernd says, sitting up. “Say you were straight and had been with Dani since high school, would you have had an issue with being a public person then?”

Huh. Marc pauses, letting the words sink in. Would he really? Yes, he’s always thought that his privacy played a part, regardless how small, but what is it about him that he doesn’t want people to know? That he knows Spanish? That he prefers to have it tidy around him? That he prefers evenings at home to clubbing? That he cares about people? That he’d rather have a few close friends than a whole gang of them? That he’s a dog person?

_That he falls in love with blokes._

“… Marc?”

“Huh?”

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Marc shakes his head at himself. “Of course. You just got me thinking for a moment there, that’s all.”

“And…?”

“I don’t know,” Marc says, scratching his neck. “I guess you could be on to something, but I wouldn’t want to be a famous person either way. It’s not because I’ve got things to hide, I just don’t want random people I don’t know to be interested in my life, like mine’s more spectacular than others’.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“That being said though, I _am_ glad not to have tons of attention drawn to my sexuality by media all over the world. I wouldn’t want that to be the one characteristic that would define my public persona.”

Bernd just nods slowly to himself, suddenly a lot more thoughtful, staring almost emptily in front of himself.

“What?”

“No, nothing. Just. You seem so confident and comfortable all the time. So sure of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m not,” Marc says, shrugging half-heartedly. “But it’s taken me a good while to get there. Most things aren’t as easy and straightforward as they may seem.”

“Yeah…” Bernd pulls the duvet a little closer around himself and falls silent, his attention drawn back to the screen.

Marc throws him a long look, wondering whether this is a good time to dig deeper, but then he shakes his head and follows Bernd’s example. It’s better to let Bernd decide when he’s ready.

~*~

Despite being the one to have called it a day, Marc can’t quite settle down once they’ve finally brushed their teeth and gone to bed that night. Bernd’s already fast asleep, curled up on his side, breath low and steady, but there’s too much spinning in Marc’s head. The career he could’ve had. The clubs he could’ve played for, the titles he could’ve won. The call he could’ve received from the Bundestrainer and the eagle he could’ve worn on his chest. The moment he heard the song _Der Tag wird kommen_ and thought wow, what if being openly gay and a professional footballer actually wouldn’t have been as bad as he feared.

And then there’s Bernd. On one hand, he hopes there aren’t worse issues than Bernd’s sexuality that’s caused the conflict between him and his parents, but on the other, it would bother him greatly if sexuality only was the reason for a strife like this. Once again Marc catches himself wondering if he’s wrong and that Bernd’s done something _actually_ terrible, but then he recalls the moment outside the banquet facility.

No. He’s not wrong about this. And even if it weren’t for the things he overheard, there are so many things about Bernd’s behaviour that Marc recognises in himself from when he was still in high school.

Christ. He should stop thinking about it already; this is not something he can fix, and he needs to get up early for work.

Bernd stirs then, his breath catching, before it goes back to its even, soothing rhythm. Had he been a mate sleeping over or even the very odd one-night stand, the sound of his breath would’ve made Marc’s skin crawl and left him unable to fall asleep, but like this… Marc can’t quite put it into words. It just soothes him, feels like a calm, stable presence that’s meant to be there.

It kind of reminds him of the few times Jean let him stay in his room. Being so much younger as Marc is, it always felt like an adventure being allowed in there, with all these cool, older kid toys – like Lego when Marc was supposed to play with Duplo, video games rated higher than Marc’s age, dinosaurs and action figures and posters of retired Gladbach players he’d only heard the name of, not seen play.

Being there at night was kind of scary, though. There were shadows shaped like beasts and witches, sounds that made him think of UFOs and aliens, and lights occasionally flashing by in a way they didn’t in Marc’s room, because his faced the backyard and not the streets. But with Jean’s peaceful, calm presence, coming across even in his sleep thanks to his even breath, it was never so scary that Marc fled back to the safety of his own bed.

With that in mind, he’s eventually lulled to sleep with Bernd’s breathing setting the rhythm of his dreams.

Soft, bright green ground under his feet and clear blue sky above. The smell of grass and adrenaline. Fans singing. The speaker calling his name. The sound of the whistle. The ball between his hands, the ball landing in the goal on the opposite side of the pitch. White and green jerseys fighting like heroes against the white and red.

And then there’s a red one sprinting towards him.

The world flashes bright.

One second, he’s on the pitch in Borussia-Park, about to save a ball from Lukas Podolski with Gladbach’s Nordkurve chanting behind him, spurring him on. The next, he’s disoriented and confused, not sure how he went from the beautiful green pitch to pitch-black, lying on his back and staring into nothing.

Did Poldi’s ball hit him in the head?

Then he blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark, and realises with a heavy sigh that it was all just a dream.

Again.

Damn it.

He means to bring both hands up to rub his face, but when he moves one, something holds it back. It takes him another second, then he’s hyperaware that he’s not sleeping alone in his bed any longer.

Bernd.

Not only is there a leg tangled between Marc’s – which he’s gotten kind of used to, even though it hasn’t been this close before – Bernd’s arm is also resting on his chest, almost all the way across it. Warm breath passes over the side of Marc’s neck when Bernd exhales, so close that now that Marc’s aware, shivers start spreading from his neck and down his spine.

Bernd stirs slightly, his arm tensing, the leg between Marc’s shifting a little higher. He whimpers in his sleep, nose brushing the point where Marc’s neck meets his shoulder, just where his t-shirt begins, then he finally seems to settle, pressed even closer to Marc than he already was.

Marc’s afraid to even breathe, doesn’t want to wake Bernd up in what the other bloke is likely to consider an awkward, embarrassing situation. They’ve come so far now, and he fears that it’ll only set Bernd back five steps if he finds out he’s more or less cuddling up to Marc when he’s sleeping.

Marc shifts a little, trying to loosen up the tension in his body without disturbing Bernd, then he puts his free arm over his eyes and breathes in deeply. He can work with this. He prefers sleeping on his back with his head on a pillow anyway. He’s not directly opposed to cuddling, and closeness has never made him uncomfortable, even though he doesn’t think he’s the type to cuddle up to the person he’s sleeping next to. Granted, he’s not been very keen on cuddling with one-night stands, but this is almost as far from a sexual moment with a stranger as it can get.

He carefully adjusts his pillow a little, then he shifts his focus back to Bernd’s calm, even breath, once again letting it lull him into a deep, this time dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don’t know the song _Der Tag wird kommen_ : it’s a song specifically about gay players and that the day _will_ come, when an active, professional male player comes out. Music video [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qOg8E4Tzto&frags=pl%2Cwn).


	7. Day Twenty-Four

“Are you lying comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“I’m good.”

“I could get you another pillow…”

“Marc! You haven’t even started yet. Stop fussing and get on with it already.”

“Right. Right…”

After the situation in the hospital a week ago, Marc doesn’t want to take any chances when removing the bandage and the strips. Bernd’s been rolling his eyes, but if the alternative is Bernd passing out on him, Marc will take it.

Bernd hisses as he starts to pull at the bandage.

“Yeah, you can’t question the glue on this.”

“It feels like my skin’s gonna come off!”

Marc sends him an unimpressed look. “It’s not that bad. Clench your teeth and think about something else.”

Bernd scowls and mutters something Marc assumes is Russian.

The row of thick, dark strips is next, and if possible, they’re stuck even better to Bernd’s skin than the bandage. They’re impossible to even get a good grip on, so Marc reaches for the warm, damp cloth he planned to use for cleaning, and dabs it gently on the strips. Then he starts peeling them off, slowly and carefully in order not to tug too much on the wound.

A long, dark and scabby scar comes into view. It’s longer than Marc had pictured, and thicker, too, with more or less regular dots on each side. Some remainders of the stings are still there, sticking out from the holes at each end, where the knots were. They haven’t closed properly yet, and the stings could certainly be shortened a bit.

“Hey, Bernd, are you doing alright?”

Bernd nods.

“Dizzy, nauseous?”

“No, I’m good.”

Marc goes to rinse the cloth, folds it a few times, and starts cleaning the skin around the scar.

“This is going to remain one hell of a scar,” he says and scrubs a little to get the glue off. “How long did they say you had to keep it out of the sun?”

“A year,” Bernd mutters.

“A whole year?!”

“Yeah. Apparently.”

For the first time since that weekend they crashed into each other, guilt creeps up Marc’s spine and settles on his shoulders. Not that keeping the underside of a wrist away from sunrays is much compared to the trans men Marc knows, who even on the hottest days have to keep their shirts on to cover up their chest scars, but still. It’s an inconvenience that Marc’s inflicted on an innocent person and said person has to deal with it for a _year_. At his job that takes place _outside_ all year long, in all kinds of weather.

Hopefully it’ll be a grey and rainy year in Stuttgart.

“Okay, I’m going to get you a new plaster,” Marc says as he studies Bernd’s wrist. “The knot wounds haven’t closed properly yet. Just stay put, yeah?”

“Yes, mum.”

Marc rolls his eyes and disappears into the bathroom to go through their weak excuse of a medicine cabinet. It’s really nothing more than a small box in the cupboard under the sink – and they should definitely expand it a bit, Marc thinks as the outdated packages of aspirin catch his eye.

At least there’s a package of rather big plasters there – hopefully big enough to cover Bernd’s wrist –, and Marc suddenly recalls the time he, Tony, Howie and a few other mates played football down the road and Howie somehow managed to scrape up his knee.

A well-known _click_.

A door being pulled open and slammed shut.

Marc frowns, grabs a plaster and a scissor, and stuffs the box back into the cupboard.

Bernd’s looking at him from over the backrest of the sofa when he comes back, and Tony’s standing in the middle of the room, clutching his bag, jacket still on, looking very confused.

“Jantschke, my man!” Marc exclaims, beaming at his flatmate. “How was your holiday?”

“It was great. Yeah. Just, uhm, what’s going on here?”

“Oh, uh.”

“Is this Jean-Marcel?” Tony.

“Who’s Jean-Marcel?” Bernd.

“My brother,” Marc says, directed at Bernd, and ignores Bernd’s snort of a laugh and sarcastic _of course_. “This is Bernd,” he says to Tony, gesturing at Bernd who waves with his good hand. “He’s the friend of mine who’s been staying here.”

Tony looks between them a couple of times. “ _Friend_ ,” he repeats, nodding slowly.

Marc rolls his eyes. “Yes–”

“Hang on now,” Bernd cuts him off. “Have you been telling people something else?”

“No! Look, I texted Tony that first weekend if it was okay to have you stay here, and _he_ interpreted the word ‘friend’ a little loosely. For the record, he does that _every time_ –”

“Every time you run someone over?” Bernd.

“No!”

“You _ran him over!?_ ” Tony.

“No!” Marc pauses. “I mean, yes, but. Christ.” He takes a few deep breaths. “Tony, you do always think I mean something more when I say friend, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re tal–”

“ _Tony_ ,” Marc begs, his desperate voice coming through for a brief moment.

“Yeah, I do,” Tony says, serious this time, then winks at Bernd. “It’s just too fun to tease him; trust me, you’d do it too.”

Bernd, that shit, grins.

This is so not going to go Marc’s way.

“And the weekend I texted you, Tony, I had kind of sort of accidentally crashed into Bernd with my parents’ car, and he broke his wrist pretty nastily, so he’s been staying here to recover.”

Tony’s eyes go wide. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Marc and Bernd shake their heads in unison.

“I don’t know whether I should be surprised, or if I should’ve seen it coming ever since you tackled Howie and he bruised half his leg.”

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad, okay? And I did patch him up after.”

Marc then remembers why he’s holding the plaster and the scissor in his hands, and walks around the sofa to sit down next to Bernd, reaching for his forearm. Careful as to not damage the skin, he cuts the transparent stings down until there’s barely anything sticking out from the open wounds.

“‘Wasn’t that bad’?” Tony repeats, raising his eyebrows before turning to Bernd. “Okay, just listen to this. We were playing football with our flatmate Howie and some other mates, right? And Marc, he’s our goalie – he told you he’s a goalie, right? Good. So, Howie somehow manages this crazy run on his own, which he’s _never_ done before nor after, only to get tackled by Marc with a full-on sweeper keeper move which would’ve made even Neuer proud. And Howie goes flying, scrapes up his knee, and it goes down his lower leg, and there’s blood _everywhere_.”

“… and then I carried him back here on my back,” Marc adds without looking up from where he’s plastering Bernd’s wrist, “dropped by the pharmacy and got all the biggest plasters I could find, some bandages just in case plasters wouldn’t be enough, painkillers, antiseptic, cotton pads and scissors, and then I fixed it.”

He looks up and locks eyes with Tony, raising an eyebrow.

Bernd looks back and forth between them a few times.

“Holy shit,” he finally says. “That sounds exactly like our situation, only on a smaller scale.”

“Right?” Tony agrees, and he’s definitely enjoying himself a bit too much for Marc’s liking. “Told you, I should’ve seen this coming for years already.”

“Are you two done bonding at my expense?” Marc groans.

“You have to admit though,” Bernd says, grinning at him, “the situations are weirdly similar. I went flying through the air as well.”

“Christ, Bernd, please don’t remind me,” Marc winces as he stands up and starts cleaning up after his nurse duty. “I feel bad enough as it is, and that was physically painful to watch.”

“Hey, it’s not all bad, okay?” Bernd says, and the gentle voice makes Marc stop dead in his tracks. He didn’t even know Bernd _had_ such a voice in his repertoire. “You’ve taken excellent care of me since I landed. I bet no other stranger would’ve done that.”

“And Howie did say that he’d never received better care after an injury than he did by you,” Tony adds, his voice a lot calmer now too, sounding much more like the kind and caring bloke Marc knows.

“Thanks, boys. ‘preciate that.” He sends them both a small but tense smile, heading for the bathroom to clean up and throw away the waste.

“Oy, Marc?” Bernd suddenly calls out, and Marc can almost sense what’s coming.

“If you’re going to ask if this is some kind of gay trait, Bernd, please don’t fucking bother.”

“I wasn’t gonna!” Bernd calls back, just as Marc closes the door.

~*~

“Hey, Marc?”

Marc looks up from where he’s loading pots and pans into the dishwasher and meets Tony’s eyes. They’ve had dinner together all three of them, and Bernd just hit the shower – alone, now that he’s capable of handling that on his own –, while Marc and Tony take care of the clean-up.

Tony comes up beside him, placing the last of their plates and cutlery on the counter, looking straight at him with worry in his warm eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That situation earlier.” Tony gestures at the sofa. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to.”

“What? No! Christ, Tony, no. You didn’t. I’m just…” Marc shakes his head at himself and leans back against the dark counter, his palms resting on the smooth, cool edge. “Fried after work, I guess. I’m fine, it had nothing to do with you. _Either_ of you.”

“Are you sleeping alright with him here?”

“Yeah, that hasn’t been a problem.”

“And is he treating you right?”

Marc frowns, letting out an amused huff. “‘Treating me right’? You make it sound like we’re actually together. I can assure you, there’s nothing going on.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tony says, his voice lacking all kinds of amusement, and fixes his eyes on Marc. “Is he being a homophobic dick?”

Marc stares. “No?”

“Come on, Marc, be honest with me here. Your comment suggested something else.”

Marc opens his mouth to ask what Tony’s talking about, but then he rewinds and recalls what he said before disappearing into the bathroom. Ah, yeah, that explains it.

“That wasn’t because he’s being homophobic or anything. Well, not…” Christ, this is not going to come out right. “Not exactly. There have been a few situations, but they’re understandable, everything considered.”

“ _Understandable_?” Tony hisses, raising an eyebrow. “Marc, he seems cool and all, but being homophobic is never understandable. I mean, why am I even telling you, you _know_ this.”

“Oh, I do, but–”

“If you’re going easy on him because you’re crushing or something–”

“ _What_? No! No, it’s not like that, it’s…”

Marc cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. _Damn it_. It’s not his secret to share, but if he knows Tony right – and he _has_ known him for some years now –, he’s not going to cut Bernd any slack for the rest of the stay if he thinks something isn’t right, and Marc just can’t risk that. That would be very counterproductive, possibly spoil all the work Marc’s put into making Bernd feel safe and welcome.

“Look,” he says, leaning closer and lowering his voice, despite the fact that the shower’s still running. It’s better to be safe than sorry. “I’d rather not tell you, but I guess it’ll be easier for us all if you know. Just – please, don’t breathe a word of this to Bernd, or anyone else for that matter, because he doesn’t know that I know. Theoretically, I could even still be wrong, though I don’t count that as very likely anymore.”

He pauses for effect and Tony nods slowly, understanding dawning on his face. “He’s still in the closet, isn’t he.”

“Yes. Pretty badly in fact, and probably for a good reason. And I have to admit that I don’t know how to deal with this in the way that would suit _him_ best, so… I’m just trying to be nice about it and not push anything. We _did_ only just meet and not in an ideal way; I can’t expect him to trust me right away.”

“As long as you’re not putting his needs before your own.”

“I’m not. And really, it’s hard to perceive anything he says as offending when I know that it’s directed at himself and his own fears.”

“But if he does step over the line–”

“I’ll set him straight, I promise.”

“Or I will.”

Marc grins and grabs Tony by the neck, pulling him close in what’s not quite a hug, but definitely affectionate. “Oh, I know.”

Tony grins back and reaches up to pat Marc’s back. “Missed you, ter Stegen.”

“Missed you back, Jantschke,” Marc responds and does the same.

The door to the bathroom opens, and Bernd comes out wearing Marc’s grey sweatpants and the green hoodie, both of which he’s as good as claimed as his own since he first put them on.

“You up for some more _Thrones_ , Marc?”

“Sure. Just give me a minute to finish cleaning up.”

Bernd raises his right thumb and goes to fetch his duvet.

“Do you want to join, too?” Marc asks, throwing Tony a look.

“I’d love to, but I still need to unpack, and I’ve got work tomorrow morning.”

“Already?”

“Yeah.” Tony sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Would you like pancakes for breakfast?”

“What?” Tony splutters, frowning up at Marc. “Is this some new routine?”

“Not really. Bernd just wanted pancakes for breakfast one morning after a rough night, so now the deal is that especially bad nights equal an attempt at a bit better morning. I wouldn’t mind doing the same for you.”

“Depends on how good of a cook you are,” Tony says, raising his chin and furrowing his brows.

“He’s not bad,” Bernd says from the sofa, dropping his duvet down on it. “I’m better, of course, but Marc’s definitely learning.”

Tony looks back and forth between them a couple of times.

“Well, in that case, yes please? Pancakes at eight?”

“You got it.”

~*~

Tony thinks it’s just cool that Bernd has to stay for a little while longer. Like he says, they’re used to being three people in the flat, and Howie won’t be back until the end of September anyway, so there won’t be any conflicts. Bernd doesn’t seem to mind either, and Marc’s relieved that they’re both so positive about the current flat situation.

Not that Marc had much reason to worry after the almost instant bonding between the two – and as if that wasn’t enough, they quickly find out that they have the same taste in music, the same taste in video games, the same taste in films. From Marc’s perspective, they really seem to enjoy each other’s company, and now Bernd doesn’t have to be all on his own while Marc’s at work. Sure, Tony’s got his own job and assignments for the uni to work on, but at least they’re able to take shifts in keeping Bernd entertained.

And Marc can’t help but grin when he comes home late from work, only to find them on the sofa playing some video game he’s almost never heard of and quoting films Marc doesn’t even think he’s seen. They barely have the time to acknowledge that he’s home, just sending him a quick nod before returning their focus back to the screen.

Marc shakes his head with a fond smile and reminds himself that this is so much better than the alternative. They could’ve hated each other’s guts, and that would’ve been impossible to deal with.

Tony’s also very pleasantly surprised by the way dinner’s improved – thanking Bernd for being such a good influence on Marc, even – and quickly joins in on the deal by helping Marc whenever there’s an extra pair of hands needed. Bernd starts using the excuse that his left hand’s still too weak for him to be cooking, and Marc ducks his head to hide a grin every time, because he knows that Bernd’s lying; that right hand alone is capable of a lot.

With the cast and the strips off, and the sensation ever so slowly returning to his left hand, Bernd’s also fully capable of showering on his own. Even though Marc kind of misses the gentle intimacy and massages, it’s great that nobody’ll ever know about that but them, and they don’t have to explain to anyone. Plus, it really is hot water-saving and less time-consuming that Bernd’s able to handle basic hygiene without any help.

Tony does pick up on the clothes sharing, though. Sometimes, he’ll catch a glimpse of Bernd and turn to stare for a while before realising what doesn’t quite fit with the picture, and a few times, before he learns which clothes Bernd prefers to borrow and not, he even gets them confused and calls out _ter Stegen!_. That’s how Bernd finds out that Marc and Tony usually just call each other by surnames, and the _Leno!_ and _Jantschke!_ calls become a thing immediately after. Within just a few days, Marc and Bernd are the only ones calling each other by their first names.

“But this third flatmate of yours,” Bernd asks one night when all three of them are having dinner in front of some old episodes of _How I Met Your Mother_. “You don’t use his surname when you talk about him.”

“Nope, but Howie’s just Howie.” Tony.

“Interesting observation, though,” Marc says. “It’s not like we don’t know how to write or pronounce his name, it’s not even particularly hard, it just kind of… fits weird in our mouths? I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced having to say a Russian name or word when speaking German, or the other way around, and it doesn’t sound quite right to pronounce it in the accent of the other language?”

Bernd takes a moment to consider, then tests it out for himself. “I’ve never thought about it before, but now that you mention it, I guess it does feel a bit weird.”

“Wow, leave it to you language nerds to come up with a reason as to why,” Tony comments. “Personally, I just think Howie’s cooler.”

“Hey, _he’s_ the nerd here,” Bernd says, pointing at Marc. “I have no idea what he’s talking about, I’m just testing it out.”

“Fair enough,” Tony says, holding out his fist for Bernd to bump against, and Marc curses himself for having given them yet another thing to bond over.

And if Tony thinks it’s weird that Marc and Bernd are obviously sharing the same room, and obviously enough sharing the bed, he doesn’t comment on it. Not even a wink in the morning if Bernd suddenly decides to shuffle out of the bedroom when Marc does, for which Marc’s very grateful for. It was definitely the right decision to let Tony in on the secret.

What he on the other hand does keep exclusively to himself, is that Bernd keeps snuggling up to him every night, pushing a leg between Marc’s and resting his arm on Marc’s chest. What Marc had thought was only a one-time thing has turned into an expectation Bernd always meets after falling asleep, and if Marc manages to get his own arm free, he’ll even wrap it around Bernd in return. He’s never had anything like this, and even though it’s all platonic, he’s going to make the most of it when he finally has the chance. Who knows if he’ll ever get something like this again, and perhaps Bernd can sense the closeness and comfort in his sleep somehow, drawing strength from it as well.

Tony doesn’t need to know; it feels too private and would give off the wrong impression, and Bernd… Well, Bernd’s just very unpredictable in that regard. By now, it doesn’t seem to bother him to talk about sexuality related topics as long as it doesn’t involve himself, which Marc considers another victory in the ‘coming to terms’ process, but he still shuts off as soon as he senses that they’re getting personal.

Marc quickly learns to avoid the awkward silence that follows by suggesting another episode of a show, a round of games with Tony, or a light jog to the park. With the cast off, Bernd’s finally able to go for light jogs again, and he gladly joins whenever Marc asks him – as long as he’s allowed to hit the shower first when they get back.

And of course: shortly after Tony comes back, the Bundesliga season _finally_ starts again, and they all gather in front of the television to watch Gladbach’s matches. Bernd sulks about how bad VfB’s doing, but joins in on Marc’s and Tony’s celebration when the foals waltz over Leverkusen, probably taking it as a personal victory against his parents.

Speaking of parents, however, Bernd’s mum actually keeps calling. Not every day, and not more than once at the time, but she does call. To begin with, Bernd barely accepts any of the calls, but after about a week, he picks up every time. Marc doesn’t catch anything of their conversations – Bernd’s very set on speaking Russian and never shares what they’ve talked about –, but it does make him happy each time he hears the specific ringtone and sees Bernd reach for his phone. Whatever it is they need to sort out, they won’t come any way if they’re not talking to each other.

And if Bernd comes out of the bedroom after a call like that, head hanging low as he asks Marc if they could please watch an episode even though he knows Marc’s busy, Marc just smiles up at him, smacks his computer shut and puts on the popcorn before Bernd’s had the time to blink.

Just like that, the routine they’ve created spins on, with Bernd curling up to Marc at night, cooking together, watching shows together, going jogging together, brushing their teeth together… okay, so maybe showering together isn’t a routine any longer, but the closeness of having shared something so intimate stays with them.

Ever since that first night Bernd spent, Marc’s thought that they’ll get sick of each other sooner rather than later – that he’s going to want his bed and room back, want time to himself, not having to adjust his schedule to another person. Now though, even though he’s happy on Bernd’s behalf that his hand’s slowly and gradually getting better, he also knows that every improvement brings them closer to the day Bernd decides to leave, and Marc can’t say he’s looking forward to it.

It’s going to be so weird sleeping alone in his bed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would Tony and Bernd really be bros? Yes. Yes, they [would](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/tyskerunge/176847236880).


	8. Day Thirty-Five

It’s been more than a month since the accident when Bernd has not only gotten the sensation in his fingers back, he’s becoming capable of moving them, pinching first thumb and forefinger very gently, the rest of the fingers gradually following. He spends less and less time with the orthosis on, he can rotate his hand enough to see the palm of his hand and all sides of his little finger before the injury stops him, and he starts holding stuff so naturally that Marc sometimes worries that he’s not keeping the two kilos limit in mind.

He even starts talking about being able to drive home to Stuttgart soon.

Marc figures that it should be all up to Bernd when he wants to go home, but he convinces him to at least go for a few test drives around Düsseldorf first, just so that he’ll get a feeling of how it’ll be to _actually_ drive with his left hand still not back to one hundred percent functionality.

Bernd calls him mum again, and Marc rolls his eyes.

At least Bernd takes the hint that some test drives isn’t such a bad idea before a drive that could potentially take him up to six hours.

Marc still makes sure that he doesn’t have to work the day Bernd decides to leave, though, just in case something should happen on the way. They made the most out of the day before, having pancakes for breakfast for the last time – where Bernd indeed showed Marc how to flip the hell out of them – and finishing off as much as possible of the popcorn they’ve stocked up on over the weeks while binging their way through the remaining episodes of their shows. Bernd even talked Marc into giving him a massage for the last time, so by the time they crashed into bed around 2 a.m., Marc was so tired that even if he’d had the seventh season of _Game of Thrones_ , he’d refused to keep going.

He’s feeling it the next morning, but he still gets out of bed when Bernd does, has breakfast with him and spends half the time stressing over whether Bernd has enough to eat and drink for the drive, stuffing his bag with an extra bottle of water, some plates of chocolate and all the rest of the painkillers, just in case the pain should suddenly kick in again.

“And if you start feeling dizzy or nauseous like the day at the hospital, pull over at the first chance you get, okay? Because passing out behind the wheel is a very bad idea, and you can avoid it simply by laying down flat for a while and drink something.”

“I hope you realise that there’s a reason I keep calling you ‘mum’,” Bernd counters.

“Yeah,” Marc says, worrying his lip between his teeth. “I just… God, it’s getting old, but I still feel sort of responsible here. I just want to make sure that I do what I can to avoid further injury.”

“You’ve done a great job already, there’s really no need for you to do more. Least of all beat yourself up over what happened.”

Marc sends him a small smile.

It’s almost strange standing in front of Bernd like this. Marc’s still dressed in the t-shirt he slept in and worn sweatpants, he hasn’t showered or shaved yet, and the height difference he didn’t know was there is suddenly very prominent when he’s not even wearing socks, and Bernd has put on his shoes.

Bernd’s also dressed a lot better – dark, newly washed jeans, a pair he packed for the trip a month back; his black trainers and the deep green hoodie. His blonde, now longer and slightly curled hair has been styled to stay in place. He’s clean shaven and has even put some cologne on, which smells so good that Marc kind of wants to ask what it’s called.

Marc’s been the grown up for more than a month now, and suddenly, the tables have turned. He’s thought of Bernd as cute – in an adorable, boyish sort of way – this whole time they’ve spent together, and now? Almost all healed up and not looking so grumpy anymore? Bernd’s actually rather handsome. As a _man_ , not just as a boy. It’s not that Marc hasn’t noticed before, it’s just so much more visible now that Bernd isn’t sporting the look of a patient.

God, Marc’s going to miss having him around.

“And, uh… Thank you. Honestly. For all your help, and care, and… you know. I wouldn’t’ve been able to handle these weeks if it wasn’t for you.”

At least Bernd still sounds the same as Marc’s come to know him.

“You wouldn’t have had to handle them at all if it wasn’t for me.”

Bernd shrugs. “With the speed and carelessness I was biking, I’d probably be run over anyway. I know we’ve joked a lot about it, but I really was lucky it was you.”

Marc doesn’t know whether to shrug it off or say thank you, so it ends up in this weird shrug-and-smile gesture.

“Well, I… better get going.”

“Drive safe.”

“I will.”

“Text me when you’re home so I know it went well.”

“Copy that.”

Bernd sends him a tense smile, picks up his bag and turns to leave.

He’s got his hand on the door handle when he draws a deep breath, his shoulders tensing, the fabric of the hoodie stretching across his shoulder blades. He pauses like that, struggling with himself for a moment.

“Look, Marc…”

Marc perks up.

Bernd turns back around, shoulders slumping, bag dropping to the floor as he raises his right hand to scratch his neck, eyes cast downward.

“There’s just something…” He cuts himself off with a pained grimace. “Fuck, I don’t know how to say this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I… kinda do. And I want to, too, I just don’t…” Bernd sucks his lower lip into his mouth. “You remember what I said? The day when… the day before the surgery?”

“Which part in particular are you referring to?”

Bernd scratches his forearm – the line of skin between the orthosis and where he’s pushed the sleeve of the hoodie up to his elbow.

“When we… when it kinda felt like we were fighting.”

Marc nods.

“And I, uh. I said I wasn’t…”

“… like me?”

Bernd looks up, his clear eyes meeting Marc’s for a glimpse of a moment, nodding as he looks away again.

“I remember,” Marc says, his voice gentle.

“Yeah. About that. I may not have been, you know…” Bernd scratches his forearm again. “A hundred percent honest with you there.”

Marc nods for him to go on.

“That day we crashed, I just…” Bernd begins, voice already trembling, gaze flickering. “I must’ve snapped, somehow. I didn’t plan to, didn’t mean to, never meant to, really. But I did, in the most inconvenient situation ever, and… basically came out in front of the whole family. I didn’t even realise until I had, just stood there in shock, and they– uh, they didn’t take it well. Not…”

Bernd cuts himself off and presses the palm of his good hand to his forehead. “Not at all, actually. Not that I expected otherwise, because I’ve always known that they see this as a crime worse than murder, but… Still. It hurt more than I was prepared for. And I just had to get out of there, didn’t think it through, just jumped on the bike, and suddenly I was on the ground, my body was aching and you – you were looking down at me all worried and concerned and _caring_.”

Marc nods again to show that he’s listening, slower this time, heart aching with the pain in Bernd’s voice, the pain he must’ve felt, the pain he’s still feeling. This must be the most he’s spoken continuously since they met, and it seems to cost him a great deal to do it. No wonder he’s been closeted for so long.

“Fuck, I had – I _have_ no idea how to deal with this, and then you come along and you’re so cool about it. And relaxed and comfortable and whatnot. And it just messes with my head, because I’ve never been presented with… that way to look at it. I didn’t know it was possible. I’ve always perceived other people’s stories as fairy tales and fiction, because _real people_ don’t have it that easy. _Real people_ don’t just wake up and are _happy_ that they’re gay. _Real people_ aren’t supported from day one by everyone and everything. And I know you weren’t either, but you’re _still_ so relaxed, and…” Bernd cuts himself off with a weak sigh. “Fuck, I know I’ve been difficult and rude, but – Christ, Marc, I–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Marc’s quick to say. “It’s okay.”

“Not really.” Bernd worries his lip between his teeth. “And it’s not fair of me to take it out on you.”

“Bernd.” And Bernd looks up at the mention of his name. “It’s _okay_. I know.”

Bernd pauses, frowning.

“What do you mean, you _know_?”

“I know how hard it can be. I know that it isn’t as easy as it’s presented sometimes.” Marc draws a deep breath. “And I know you weren’t telling the truth.”

“ _What_?” Bernd’s voice is merely a whisper, the word uttered in confusion and disbelief.

“I’ve known since that day. When I went to put back your cousin’s bike…” Marc pauses again, pressing his lips together. “Let’s just say I heard enough to connect the dots.”

“You _knew_.”

Marc nods.

“You didn’t tell me.”

Marc shakes his head.

“Why didn’t you _tell me_?” Bernd stresses, louder this time, and steps closer.

“I recognised the struggle you were facing,” Marc says, keeping his voice calm. “And I thought it’d be best not to force you out. I wanted you to figure out for yourself when you were ready.”

“You could’ve at least… mentioned it. What you heard.”

“Don’t you think you would’ve just denied it?”

Bernd looks away.

“Don’t you think you would’ve found it uncomfortable to know that some random person you didn’t know suddenly knew something so personal and intimate about you before you had come to terms with it yourself?”

“I… don’t know. I guess. Maybe.”

“And I may be wrong, but I assume there’s a reason you haven’t told me before now.”

“That’s… different. I didn’t want you to get… ideas, or whatever.”

“Why would I get ideas?”

Bernd gnaws on his lip and wraps his good arm around himself. “Never mind.”

“Look, Bernd, I get it. I _do_. Coming out and coming to terms with it can be hard as fuck, and with what you told me just now, I don’t blame you at all for struggling. Not that I did in the first place, but that shit is _rough_. I would’ve struggled as well, hell, _anyone_ would’ve if they were in your shoes, and I’m so very sorry you’ve had to go through that alone.”

Bernd gnaws harder.

“And I get that you haven’t told me before, because trust isn’t built in one day,” Marc adds. “Or a week, or a month. I didn’t expect you to tell me at all, really.”

“… you’re not angry with me?” Bernd asks, looking at Marc in disbelief again.

“No? No, why–”

“Shouldn’t you be?”

“ _God_ no, why would I?” Marc steps closer, meaning to reach out for Bernd, only just managing to hold himself back, not sure if touch would be okay right now. “Man, Bernd, what is it really you’ve been telling yourself? Because I can’t think of a single reason why I would be angry with you. Quite the contrary, I’m _proud_ of you for having come this far. You should be, too.”

Bernd squeezes his eyes shut, his lower lip trembling.

“Hey, it’s okay–”

“Stop saying that!” Bernd snaps. “Stop being so caring, _dammit_!”

And when Bernd opens his eyes and fixes them on Marc, something in them seems to have shifted. He reaches out to grab Marc by the neck with his good hand, bringing them close, their noses almost touching. Marc’s heart rate speeds up and he becomes acutely aware of their heights – close up, the few centimetres are enough to make a difference.

“I should be angry with you. Hell, you should be angry with _me_.”

“Bernd, come on…” Marc tries, voice soft, and puts his hands on Bernd’s shoulders.

“Don’t you get it?” Bernd bites out. “All the things I said? All the homophobic stuff? The way I pushed sometimes, generalising, insulting… I was a dick and you didn’t even tell me off. Why _didn’t you tell me off_?”

The last part ends in what sounds like a growl, and Marc closes his eyes, drawing a deep breath, calming his urge to snarl back. This is just Bernd’s frustration and confusion speaking.

“Getting angry would only have made matters worse, don’t you think?” Marc opens his eyes again and is met with the angry, but also scared, sore look on Bernd’s face. He drops his hands to Bernd’s upper arms, rubbing soft circles with his thumbs, and Bernd’s eyes fall shut, his jaw working. “I thought I’d have a better shot at reaching through if I was kind about it. And I wanted you to see for yourself that you don’t have to fit any stereotypes; you can be as ordinary and average and boring as you’d like, and still like blokes.”

“Why the _fuck_ are you being so calm and understanding, huh?” Bernd hisses, eyes flying back open, pupils blown wide, knocking their foreheads together. “ _Huh?_ ”

“I’ve been exactly where you’ve been, why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I don’t deserve it!”

Bernd’s nails press into the back of Marc’s neck, and Marc winces.

“Bernd…”

Bernd’s breath catches in his throat, and he turns away, cheeks reddening.

“Hey, Bernd, come on…”

Bernd squeezes his eyes shut again, sucking his lip into his mouth.

“Come here,” Marc whispers, calm and gentle, and slowly lets his hands drop to Bernd’s sides, wrapping his arms around the other bloke and pulling him close.

Bernd stiffens at first. The nails dig harder into Marc’s neck. Marc rubs one of his palms between Bernd’s shoulder blades, letting the other rest on his lower back.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, resting his chin on Bernd’s shoulder and moving his hand up to the back of Bernd’s head, burying his fingers in the curls on the top. The pressure on his neck eases, the tenseness in Bernd’s posture loosens up, and Marc suddenly finds himself with Bernd’s arms thrown around his neck and Bernd’s face pressed to his shoulder.

Marc squeezes back, carding his hand through Bernd’s hair and rubbing circles on his back as Bernd trembles. He doesn’t make a sound, just breathes heavily, and it doesn’t take long before Marc can feel his t-shirt becoming warm and damp.

Hands curl into the back of his own shirt, and Marc tightens his grip as well, burying his face in the hoodie that, this close up, smells like them both. He draws a deep breath to calm down, needing to be the anchor, something stable for Bernd to lean on, and inhales the scent of Bernd’s cologne and the faint, but distinct smell of him, which Marc’s gotten so used to this past month.

Neither of them says anything while they stand there, clinging to each other, Marc’s shirt soaking up Bernd’s tears and Marc blinking his own away. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants to reassure Bernd about, but words become superficial in a moment like this. He remembers all too well when he found himself in a similar position with Daniela, sitting next to each other on her bed, his tears drying on her t-shirt and how she just let him, stroking his back without a word, all the support, care and love he needed coming from those hands on his back and the comfortable, warm silence in the room.

His friendship with Bernd doesn’t go nearly as deep as the one with Dani, but if he’s able to convey even a tiny percentage of that same love and support she showed, he’s counting it as a victory.

“I’m sorry,” Bernd whispers, voice muffled and hoarse. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” Marc whispers in response and hugs him harder. “I know. You don’t have to be sorry.”

Bernd squeezes right back, his breath stilling for a moment before it starts to calm down.

Marc can’t tell how long they stand like that. It felt like minutes before Bernd opened his mouth, and it feels even longer after they’ve stopped talking altogether. When Bernd does pull back, though, there aren’t any tears rolling anymore. His eyes may be sore and wet, his cheeks flushed and lips chewed red, but the glimpse in his eyes is far from empty.

Only when Bernd leans forward again, does Marc register the hand still resting at the back of his own neck.

Bernd closes his eyes. Their foreheads touch and their noses bump. A gust of warm, uneven, peppermint breath passes over Marc’s chin as Bernd exhales. Marc’s eyes flutter close, his heart rate speeds up again, he feels rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. He’s afraid to even breathe, his mouth and throat suddenly dry. Bernd is so very, very close, much closer than before, so _there_ , so _present_ , radiating heat and nerves and want.

_Want._

Marc’s mind flashes back to beer in the park, rough stubbles and shaving cream, wet skin and shower gel, popcorn on the leather sofa, transparent stings and scabby scars, Bernd wearing his clothes and Bernd’s scent on the sheets, grocery shopping and pancakes flipping, walks in the sun and show binging, brushing teeth together before bedtime and waking up to gentle touches in the morning.

Comfortable.

Natural.

 _Right_.

Marc’s heart is slamming against his rib cage by now, but he’s not nervous, not anymore. He wants this. He _wants_ this, can already feel Bernd’s lips against his own, sense the warmth of them, taste that peppermint flavour from the toothpaste, smell shampoo, cologne and the underlying scent of _Bernd_.

He’s about to run out of air, but he can feel Bernd’s breath, he can sense how close their lips are, can feel Bernd’s grip tightening…

The hand drops from his neck.

“Text you when I’m home,” Bernd mutters, and Marc opens his eyes just in time to see blonde hair and deep green disappear out the door.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Marc gasps for air and nearly tumbles over, reaching out for support. One hand brushes the wall and he slumps back against it, banging his head against it, grasping at his short hair – too short for the satisfaction of pulling at it.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He keeps his eyes fixed on the door, silently, stupidly hoping that Bernd will come back, all regretful that he left like that without finishing what he started. But all he keeps seeing is the last glimpse of Bernd’s back as he rushed out, over and over, like an optical illusion he can’t look away from, trying to make sense of the trick it’s playing on his brain.

Black trainers.

Dark jeans.

Blonde hair.

Deep green hoodie.

 _Marc’s_ hoodie.


	9. Day Forty-Eight

Marc stares at the document on his computer.

He stares at the books spread out on his desk.

He stares at the pictures of beautiful, sunny Catalonia.

He stares at the dark clouds looming outside his window.

He stares at the mess in his room: the linens he should’ve changed weeks ago, the dirty clothes in a heap in the armchair, the growing pile of papers and books on his desk, the dust gathering in the corners and the lamp on the bedside table with the light bulb that’s been empty since Bernd left.

He stares back at the document.

Goddamn it.

He pushes his chair away from the desk and spins it – once, twice.

Stares at the document again.

Frowns at the mess.

He desperately needs to take of both, but he can’t be bothered to do either.

He rolls the chair back to the desk and leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling. Funny, how he managed to get _more_ done while Bernd was around and half the time was spent helping or hanging out with him.

Marc rubs his eyes and throws the document one last look, glaring at the new, empty page, before smacking the computer shut.

He scans the room, reaches for his phone and opens the notes app.

_light bulb_

He stands up, grabs all the clothes in the armchair and stuffs them in the laundry basket. He can sort them out later, if he bothers, the important thing is that they’re not lying about, annoying him, creating a bad atmosphere in the room.

Next, he strips the bed and brings the linens straight to the bathroom to put on the washing machine, and while he’s there, he scans the bathroom as well. They could definitely stock up on painkillers, after he gave all the rest they had that wasn’t outdated to Bernd. They’re not running short on toilet paper, but now would be a good time to buy more, before they forget it and suddenly don’t have enough. He could also use a new toothbrush, the toothpaste is almost empty – and thinking of empty, there was more air than shower gel in that bottle this morning.

“Hey, Tony?” he calls as he leaves the bathroom, adding the bathroom articles to his list. “Do you need anything from the store?”

“No thanks, I’m good,” Tony says from the kitchen table, without taking his attention away from his phone nor his dinner.

“You sure?” Marc scans the fridge, can’t see that he’s really lacking anything, but extra milk, cheese and eggs would actually mean not having to go shopping for the rest of the week.

“Yeah, I can always drop by after work if something comes up.”

“When do you leave again?” Marc asks, shoving his phone into his pocket and grabbing his backpack, wallet and keys from his room.

“In half an hour or so.” Tony turns around in his chair, eyeing Marc as he shoves his feet into his shoes and bends down to tie the laces. “Are you sure you want to go right now, though? I mean… It’ll start pouring down any moment now, you can feel it all the way in here.”

“It won’t take long.” Marc looks up as he switches feet to tie the other lace. “I’ll be back before you have to go.”

The overwhelming heat of the summer is definitely over. Marc almost shivers in his t-shirt as he steps out on the street, setting a good pace to push it away.

As always – and as promised – he’s effective when he reaches the store.

Until the newsstand catches his eye.

There’s a new issue of _11 Freunde_ out, and memories rush back all by themselves – calculating the chances of Bernd already owning the previous issue, worrying about the severity of Bernd’s injury, the guilt of having put someone in the hospital over the weekend. But strongest of them all: Bernd, lighting up, all smiles and sparkling eyes, as he pulled out the items in the grocery bag, resembling a prepubescent schoolboy more than a grown man.

Marc almost slaps himself. Bernd’s gone home now, he has enough to deal with. His wrist is probably not even healed completely yet. That moment in the hallway was just a glimpse, a slip, a distressed and confused Bernd who didn’t know how to properly react to support, understanding and physical touch.

Pushing the memory away, Marc grabs the issue and heads for the checkout.

It’s already drizzling when he comes out of the store. The cool drops hit the naked skin of his arms and Marc shivers, definitely speeding up this time to avoid the downpour that’s about to come. It’s not that he’s negative to rain – he’s actually rather fond of storms and bad weather – he’d just prefer to be inside once it starts for real.

Everything flashes, sharp and white and only in the blink of an eye, followed by a crash of thunder a second later. Marc half expects to be hit by a wave of water next, but all he perceives is the distant recoils of the thunder.

This would be the perfect moment to start _Game of Thrones_ all over again and eat disgusting amounts of popcorn with Bernd.

Marc clenches his hands into fists and shakes his head at himself. _Stop_ thinking that a month like that will ever happen again. It was a state of emergency that felt more like a sleepover, appreciate that it went as well as it did and _accept_ the fact that it’s over. Be happy on Bernd’s behalf that it is, because that means he’s getting better and can get back to work and live his life.

Plus, Marc thinks as he mentally brings out the image of his cupboard and sees some popcorn left in the very back, he’s got two out of three and the place to himself for the rest of the evening. It could’ve been a lot worse.

“I’m back,” he calls out as he gets back to the flat, toeing off his shoes.

“Well timed,” Tony calls back, words muffled and badly articulated, as if he has something in his mouth, followed by the sounds of spitting and water running.

“Have you heard anything from Howie yet?” Marc asks and starts unpacking the groceries.

“Yep,” Tony says as he comes out of the bathroom, the door falling shut behind him. “We texted yesterday, he said he’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“Oh, great!”

“Yeah, unless his flights from God-knows-where to a little less God-knows-where to Germany are delayed again.”

“How many times has that actually happened, though? Once?” Marc asks.

“Twice, actually,” Tony corrects him, and starts cleaning up after dinner just as Marc heads for the bathroom. “And with the weather we’re about to get, and they’re already in the thick of a storm up there…”

“He said so?” Marc calls, pulling out their so-called medicine cabinet.

“Yeah. Apparently, there are closed roads,” – a shrilling sound goes off in the background – “and cancelled ferries all over the country.”

“Jesus…” Marc says, just as he recognises the sound as their doorbell. “Hey, can you get that?”

The sound of Tony’s footsteps is response enough.

“He’s actually kind of worried that he won’t make it tomorrow,” Tony calls from the hallway.

“Yeah, no wonder.”

The door is opened, and it must be someone Tony knows, because Marc hears his flatmate greet them with enthusiasm, laughter and high fives and back-patting and all. From what little Marc can hear of tone and emotion in Tony’s voice, he sounds _happy_ , and he’s usually of the more reserved type until he knows people well. He’s not shy, per se, more like sceptical and guarded.

“Hey, Marc, it’s for you!”

Wait.

Huh?

“Maaaarc!”

“Right, right, I’m comi–”

– and then he stops dead in his tracks.

“Hi, Marc.”

“Bernd.”

His voice is merely a whisper.

Bernd raises his left arm, and it’s hard to tell whether it’s an awkward wave, or he just wants to show off his wrist. He’s not wearing the orthosis anymore; instead, there’s a thin, skin-coloured plaster covering the skin where Marc knows the scar is still healing. His right hand is clutching a plastic bag.

“I was already on my way to work,” Tony speaks up, looking from Marc to Bernd. “So I’m just gonna…” He points behind himself with his thumb and reaches for his backpack. “So, you know, just… catch up or whatever, I’ll be at work all evening.”

Marc and Bernd both nod, but stay painfully quiet until the front door has fallen shut.

“What are you doing here?” Marc asks, not unkindly, but it still feels like it comes out the wrong way.

“I was gonna return these,” Bernd says, and jerks his right hand.

“No, I meant… What are you doing in NRW? I doubt you’d drive all the way here just to return something.”

“Oh. No. I, uh, had my six weeks check-up today.”

“Oh!” Of course. Marc knew this was coming, he should’ve guessed as much. “You had to come up here for that? Couldn’t they’ve rescheduled you at the hospital in Stuttgart?”

Bernd blinks. “Huh. I didn’t even think that far.” He pauses, scratches the back of his neck. “It’s not like it was much of a problem coming up here, though. I’m on sick leave throughout this week, and I’m more or less climbing up the walls at home.”

“Itching to go back to work?”

“Yeah. Who would’ve thought.”

Marc tries to smile, and Bernd returns it just as awkwardly.

“Here,” he says and holds out the plastic bag again. “It’s the clothes you lent me.”

“You didn’t have to return them.”

“They’re yours. Of course you’re getting them back. All clean and dry and folded.”

Marc swallows the “they’re yours now” burning on his tongue, and accepts the bag. It feels heavier than he expected; he must’ve lent Bernd more clothes than he can remember. He grew so used to seeing Bernd in them that he stopped thinking of them as his own.

“Thanks.”

Then they just stand there, both with their eyes cast downward, and Marc tries desperately to think of something to say. It’s definitely weird seeing each other again a good while after living on top of each other, more than regular flatmates, for more than a month. It doesn’t flow as it did, it doesn’t come as natural to them as it did, it just… isn’t the same.

Marc can’t help but wonder whether that almost kiss situation is the reason for that or not. It doesn’t fit his impression of them as friends that something as small as that would push them out of their orbit, but _something’s_ not right and that’s the only thing that’s changed. And the lack of constant contact, of course.

Was it really just a one-time thing, a magic moment that could only occur under those exact circumstances? A common project, a common goal to work towards, bringing together two people who normally wouldn’t even get along?

The whole room flashes white.

Bernd jumps, and Marc feels it in his bones when the following thunder rolls over the city, shaking the walls. And then, when he turns to look outside the window, the heaven opens and the water comes crashing down like a tidal wave.

“I better get going,” Bernd says, and Marc almost doesn’t hear him over the weather.

“Already?” He turns back around, takes in the way Bernd’s sucking on his lip and scratching his forearm. “In this weather?”

“It’s not as bad further south. I should get going so I won’t be home so late.”

“Yeah.” Marc swallows. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, I… Yeah.”

Bernd fidgets for another moment, then he turns around and heads for the front door. Marc needs a moment to really register the movement, so Bernd’s almost done putting on his shoes when Marc follows.

“Don’t you have a jacket?”

“I’m spending the time in the car, I don’t need one.”

“You’re going to get wet now. And it’s a long drive.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll manage. There’s nothing like driving my black beauty.”

“Okay.” Marc tries to smile again, but his mouth won’t listen. “Thanks for bringing back the clothes.”

 _The_ clothes.

Not _my_ clothes.

“It was the least I could do after all you did.” Bernd tries to smile too, but he doesn’t quite manage either.

“Drive safe.”

“I will.”

The door falls shut behind him and Marc resists the sudden urge to lie down and scream into a pillow. Not because Bernd didn’t try to kiss him again; not because they didn’t talk about what happened, didn’t happen, could’ve happened; not because Bernd’s not staying and not because there’s anything left unsaid.

He’s losing a friend, and even if they were to stay in touch, sporadically, via Facebook or WhatsApp, it’ll never be the same as that month they shared.

The room flashes again, and Marc rushes over to the window, just in time to see Bernd sprinting towards his car and throwing himself inside on the driver’s side. The front lights come on and Marc closes his eyes, forcing back the tears, and falls back on the sofa, pressing his hands to his eyes.

Stop it, you idiot. You knew it was only temporarily. You can’t expect to stay in touch with some bloke you ran down. You can’t expect to make a friendship out of being forced to spend time together. Not that he would _mind_ if there was something more than a friendship there, oh _lord_ no, but a friendship’s so much more, so much better than nothing at all.

The doorbell rings.

Marc jumps up from the sofa as if struck by the lightning, rushes over to the door and presses the button to open the front door on the ground floor. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest and he tries to tell himself that it can’t be Bernd, but the more he thinks about not thinking it, the more his hope increases.

Shortly after, he hears a set of footsteps outside which he vaguely recognises, and he throws open the door before the other has the time to knock.

“Whoa, what’s on fire?” Tony says, jumping back, holding up his hands.

Marc draws a sharp breath, then another, only now realising that he was holding it.

“Uhm. Nothing.” He steps aside to let Tony in. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to work?”

“Forgot my keys,” Tony says with an awkward grimace, putting his soaking wet umbrella aside as he reaches just inside the flat to grab the keys hanging on the hook next to the door. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Marc says and rubs a hand over his face. “I just thought…”

“What?”

“Nothing. You get to work, I’m going to…” He trails off with a heavy sigh. “I have to get back to my assignment.”

Tony, ready to grab his umbrella again and get out of there, pauses in the middle of the movement.

“Your assignment?” he frowns.

“What else?”

“You’re working on your assignment when Bernd’s here?”

“Oh, no, he was just here to drop off something. He wanted to drive now so he won’t be home too late.”

“Right.”

Tony reaches for the umbrella, but he still doesn’t make a move to leave.

“Come on,” Marc finally urges. “You’re going to be late for work.”

“Are you okay, though?”

“I will be, don’t worry. Now get going, I don’t want it to be my fault if you’re fired.”

“ _Yes_ , mum,” Tony says, and God, it reminds Marc so much of the way Bernd used to do it – annoyed, but still amused, fond and thankful – that it burns in his chest and up his throat. He can’t speak, just gives Tony a quick nod and closes the door.

He finds the deep green hoodie in the plastic bag and pulls it out, flopping down on the sofa, pressing it to his chest and burying his face in the soft material. Bernd’s scent is the only one that remains – even the washing machine can’t take away the underlying scent of him –, and Marc fights back the tears he shouldn’t be crying while clinging to the hoodie as if his life depended on it.

The room flashes, the white glimpse reaching through to him even though his eyes are covered by compact fabric, followed by a roar of thunder. Water slams against the windows, and he’s already picturing the overflowed streets, water creating its own paths in the dirt, rivers raising, people coming home from walking outside, shaking their umbrellas before hurrying inside, drenched like cats and struggling to get out of the wet clothes clinging to their bodies.

Marc looks up just as another lightning flashes across the sky, and he actually sees it this time, stretching its long, thin fingers out, lighting up the dark sky in a sudden blink. The thunder following straight after sounds _really_ close, like it’s knocking on the door, and Marc shivers. A mix of good and bad goosebumps race up his arms, and he curls into a ball with his feet on the sofa, knees pressed to his chest, wrapping the hoodie around himself and curling his hands into it, balling them into fists.

Bernd’s hoodie, he thinks as the scent of it rises to his nose again. It suited him a lot better than it ever did Marc, anyway. Bernd liked it, too. Wore it all the time – when napping on the sofa, when they went for walks, when they binged through their shows, when they ate pancakes in the morning, after Marc had soaped him in and given him a massage in the shower. Even on days which had been too warm for a hoodie, Bernd had found an excuse to wear it.

Thunder almost knocks on the door again.

Marc frowns, staring out the window, up at the dark sky. Thunder without lightning?

And then he hears it again: hard, insistent, urgent banging.

On their door.

Marc gets up from the sofa with a groan. That better fucking not be Tony who grabbed the _wrong_ key just now, or Marc will absolutely lose it.

Did he even remember to lock the door after that? He must’ve, Tony would’ve just walked right in if not.

Or maybe he’s just knocking without checking first, Marc thinks with a scoff.

He grabs the handle, pushing it down, starts pulling–

– and the door flies open.

“Fuck, I can’t go through this all over again.”

Marc has just enough time to draw his breath before cold, wet hands grab him by the ears and equally cold, wet lips press against his half-open mouth. Teeth nip at his bottom lip and he shivers, almost jerking back as he’s hit by the sheer force of what can’t quite be categorised as a kiss. He stumbles backwards into the room, hot breath hits his lips and he shivers again, the hot and cold colliding in his brain and sending lightning through his body.

“ _Bernd_ ,” Marc whimpers, overwhelmed by the long distance, the want, the longing, the forwardness and the intensity, throwing his arms around Bernd’s dripping wet form and clinging to him, digging his nails into Bernd’s skin through the thin t-shirt.

They’re both shivering, their lips trembling and Marc can’t seem to get nearly enough air, it’s more teeth and awkward angles than lips and tongue, more clumsy than elegant, both hotter and colder than a kiss is supposed to be. It’s far from perfect, it can’t even be called _good_ , but it’s exactly what one would expect of a desperate, uncoordinated moment, and that’s more than enough.

Tears of relief and yearning well up in Marc’s eyes, but he can’t bring himself to care when his face is already wet from the rain Bernd dragged in. He tilts his head to the side to get a better angle, reaching up to grab Bernd’s hair for leverage, grasping at the shortest of strands, shaved down to only a few millimetres.

“You cut your hair.”

It comes out muffled, pressed up against each other as they are, and Bernd snickers against Marc’s mouth, teeth grazing his lip. Marc doesn’t register Bernd’s response, if he responds at all; all he can sense is Bernd pressed up against him, head to toe, cold and wet but still on fire.

Bernd feels like Marc remembers from the one hug they shared, he smells like he has since he set foot in Marc’s flat, his taste matching all of that and everything Marc learnt about him in the time they spent here, together. It’s new, but damn if it doesn’t feel familiar, like something he’s known for a long time already. Like something good, something _right_ , something that’s meant to be there.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

It’s like the awkwardness from earlier was never there in the first place. Bernd’s nails dig into Marc’s jaw as his back hits the wall, and he slumps back against it, drained, panting, needing to pull away to breathe. He lets his hands drop from Bernd’s hair to his cheeks, red and wet and cold.

“I thought you left,” Marc whispers, desperation in his voice, meeting Bernd’s eyes, far from cold like the rest of him.

“Tony let me back in.”

“I didn’t want you to leave.”

Marc’s hands drop to Bernd’s chest.

“I didn’t–”

And then he registers cold, wet, coldwet, _coldwet_ for what it actually is.

“Christ, Bernd, you’re _soaked_.”

He pushes Bernd off of him, gently, grabbing his right hand and dragging him along to the bathroom. Without listening to Bernd’s weak protests, Marc pushes him down on the edge of the bathtub, rips off his shirt, crouches down to tug off his shoes and socks, then pull impatiently at his jeans.

“Come on, help me out here.”

“Jesus, Marc, you don’t have to–”

“I’m _not_ letting you get sick on my watch. You’re going back to work soon, you can _not_ afford to catch a cold or worse on top of your many weeks of leave.”

“Yes, M–”

“And don’t you dare _mum_ me on this!”

“I was gonna say ‘Yes, Marc’,” Bernd says, the smile reaching his soft and gentle voice, and stands up to take his jeans off.

Marc ducks his head. “Just get in the shower and warm up. You know where the towels are. I’ll go find you a dry change.”

He could actually use a change of his own, Marc realises as he gets into his bedroom and notices exactly how much rain and cold his clothes absorbed from Bernd’s. Quickly, he drags the t-shirt over his head and pulls off his jeans, and finds himself a clean, black jumper and loose pyjama trousers. He then takes out the sweatpants he now considers Bernd’s from the closet, a loose t-shirt, woollen socks and last, but not least, he grabs the deep green hoodie Bernd brought back from where he just left it on the sofa.

Bernd’s already drying himself off when Marc comes back with the clothes, and Marc kind of wants to nag about the very short time spent under the warm spray. Still, dry skin and dry clothes make the most difference. He hands Bernd the clothes, then takes the cold and wet ones to hang them up to dry.

Bernd comes out of the bathroom just after wearing the socks, the trousers and the t-shirt, but with the hoodie in his hands.

“I just gave this back to you.”

“I know.”

“It’s yours.”

“I told you you didn’t have to bring it back. It’s yours, now. It smells more like you than me, anyway.”

Bernd just looks at him for a moment, then he pulls it over his head with practiced ease, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. “It’s my favourite hoodie.”

“It looks very good on you.”

“No, I mean. Cos it’s yours. Or, I think of it as yours, only that I wear it. I must’ve worn it every day since I went back to Stuttgart.”

Something warm and comfortable – _domestic_ – spreads in Marc’s chest as he pictures Bernd cooking, cleaning, hanging around in his flat or with his friends, the whole time wearing the hoodie simply because it’s Marc’s, and for no other reason.

“Then you better take it with you when you go back again.”

Bernd beams at him and curls his hands into the soft fabric of the hoodie. “Can we watch _Thrones_ and eat popcorn now?”

“You want to start all over again?”

Bernd frowns. “No? I meant from where we left off.”

“We finished the sixth season before you left.”

And now a look of understanding, which Marc doesn’t understand where comes from, is spreading across Bernd’s features.

“You didn’t check the bag I gave you, did you?”

“I did,” Marc protests automatically, then he pauses to think. “Just… not everything?”

Bernd looks around the living room, glimpses the plastic bag right where he left it, picks it up and hands it to Marc with a shy smile.

Right, he _did_ feel that the weight was a little off when he accepted it the first time, but now that he sees that there are no other clothes in it, just a thick, rectangular box wrapped in green paper with a silver bow on it, it makes sense. He takes it out, tossing the bag aside, weights the box in his hand.

“You didn’t plan to go home today at all,” he says, looking Bernd in the eye.

“Not really.”

“How could you be so sure I’d be home?”

Bernd scratches his forearm. “You never worked Thursdays for as long as I stayed here. I figured it was a day you always had off.”

“You… sneaky bastard.”

“And I texted Tony.”

God, Marc should’ve guessed, with the way Tony was acting earlier. Once again, he praises himself lucky that those two hit it off so well.

“Then why couldn’t you have just told me?”

“I…” Bernd sighs and looks away, scratching his forearm harder. When he finally continues, his voice’s low, almost like a whisper. “I didn’t know how. After all this time, seeing you again after having spent so much time here with you, _missing_ you so much these past two weeks, I just…” He pauses again, gnawing at his lip, rubbing a hand over his face. “I knew that I wanted to, but I didn’t know if you wanted the same, and I had no way of knowing either, and… Fuck, do I look like I know what I’m doing? Because I don’t. Still don’t.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah, so you keep saying.” Bernd runs his hand further, over his short hair. “It’s not, though.”

“Bernd, don’t–” Marc tries to interrupt him.

“So if you want me to leave–”

“Oh, no, you’re _not_ going home tonight,” Marc interrupts again, louder and clearer this time, lips spreading into a wide smile as he locks his eyes with Bernd’s and steps closer. “You’re not going home until we’ve finished this season and you have no choice but to go back because of work.”

“So you want to, too?” Bernd asks, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“ _Yes_ , Bernd, I want to.” Marc grabs Bernd by the neck, bringing their foreheads together, their noses brushing. Lets out a happy sigh and resists the urge to pull Bernd into another kiss, not wanting to overwhelm him on the first day, figuring that Bernd should be allowed to set the pace. Bernd lets out a sigh of his own, leaning against him.

“Do you really think I’d tell you to stay if I didn’t?” Marc asks, voice low.

“I guess not.”

“Then stop worrying. It’s all good.”

They stay like that for a moment, leaning against each other, allowing their breaths and hearts to calm down. Enjoying the closeness and gently bumping noses, until Marc feels a pair of lips brushing his own. It’s not quite a kiss, just a touch, but warmth still spreads through Marc’s body.

Bernd pulls away with a blush.

“Let’s get that seventh season started, eh?” Marc winks and lets go of Bernd’s neck, registering the shy but bright smile on Bernd’s face before starting to tear at the green paper of the package.

“I’ll put on the popcorn,” Bernd offers.

“Don’t you need two hands for that?”

“Oy, I’m actually able to do shit now. I gotta be careful with the heavier lifting, but other than that, no restrictions. No more you helping me with anything.”

“Is that so?” Marc pulls off the plastic on the new, shiny DVD box, and grants himself a moment to appreciate the smooth surface. “I guess you won’t want any boyfriend treatment in the shower either, then.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Bernd says, then he snickers. “I have a feeling I could be… soft-soaped into letting you assist me once in a while when it comes to a few basic needs.”

Marc presses his lips together, feeling a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Just be careful if I drop the soap and ask you to pick it up.”

Bernd snorts and throws a fist of corn in Marc’s direction, spraying them over him like a shower.

They recreate their little sofa fort with duvets, pillows and blankets, turn down the lights, close the curtains, and Bernd curls up in his corner while Marc stretched out on his side. Outside, the rain is still pouring down, hammering against the window pane, but at least the thunder and lightning have let up for now. Bottles of beer and a big bowl of popcorn are fighting for the space on the table, and a well-known, epic opening theme is finally rolling over the screen again.

There’s only one thing missing, and considering how Bernd is fidgeting in his spot, gaze repeatedly darting towards Marc, he feels it too.

“Bernd.”

“What.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

Marc sighs and pauses the episode, just at the end of the intro.

“Hey!”

“ _Bernd_.”

“ _What_.”

“Come here.”

Their eyes meet in the dark – Marc’s warm and inviting; Bernd’s cool and sceptical.

“Why.”

“Bernd, you wear my clothes simply because they’re mine, you drove all the way here even though you didn’t have to, you checked with Tony to make sure I’d be home, you got us the next season of the show we’re watching and you made… well, quite the entrance just now. Did you really think I wouldn’t pick up on your need for some closeness?”

“I’m not a cuddler.”

Marc has to concentrate not to laugh out loud.

“We shared a bed more than big enough for the both of us for a month, and I still woke up to you pressed against my side every morning. Trust me, you’re _definitely_ a cuddler.” Marc sends Bernd a warm smile, rolling over on his back. “Now stop being so damn stubborn, and get the hell over here.”

One second, Bernd’s glaring at him with the best glare he can bring out in the dark; in the next, he’s curled up to Marc, pressed between him and the sofa, lying half beside him, half on top of him, their legs tangled together and Bernd with his chin resting on Marc’s chest.

“You happy now?” Bernd sounds like his grumpy old self, but the contentment with which he sighs and snuggles into Marc, tells a completely different story.

“Are you?” Marc asks back, sending Bernd a gentle smile as their eyes lock.

Bernd stills for a moment, pressing his lips together and just looking at Marc, before ducking his head and nodding into Marc’s chest.

“Then so am I,” Marc whispers, pressing his nose to Bernd’s hair, breathing him in.

“So put the episode back on.”

Marc reaches for the remote control with one hand and fumbles for Bernd’s hand with the other, catching Bernd’s hand first. His fingers brush the rough surface of the scar plaster on Bernd’s wrist, and Marc curls his hand around it, rubbing his thumb up and down the purple-red scar he can feel hidden underneath.

“A year, huh?” he whispers, feeling Bernd nod against his chest.

“Yeah. A whole year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another heads-up: after this four day rhythm, the tenth and last update will take a little longer. Again, this is to fit the pace of the story. You won’t have to wait too long, though – more than four days, but less than ten. In the meantime, my tumblr inbox is always open!


	10. Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how much I’d rather have this chapter called Day Three Hundred and Sixty- _Five_ , but since you always have to include the day you start counting – as in starting at 1, not 0 –, you end up with 366 days when counting from one exact date to the same date a year later. And it’s the date, not the day, that’s important in this case, no matter how much it annoys me.
> 
> Oh, and I lied about the rating. Whoops.

A thick, red line.

That’s the first thing that catches Marc’s attention after he’s stretched, rubbed his eyes and blinked them open.

A thick, red line on pale skin – though not as angry red as it once was, more like a soft pink, almost skin coloured if the light’s reflected right, slowly fading. Marc reaches out to trace it lightly with his fingertips, feeling the ragged surface under his skin. It’s healed well. He hardly thinks of it anymore, except when the line, “I’m scarred for life because of you” is thrown at him – mostly jokingly, sometimes fondly, on rare occasions angrily.

The corners of his mouth pull into a soft smile, then he closes the distance of a few centimetres to press his lips to the healed wrist. God, it feels so good to wake up like this, knowing that for once, they don’t have to wait weeks or even months until the next time.

The arm resting on Marc’s chest twitches, and Bernd stirs next to him, making sleepy noises as he too stretches, before curling back into a ball, pressing closer, throwing a leg over both of Marc’s.

Oh, he’s a cuddler, alright.

Marc ducks his head and smiles against Bernd’s wrist, sighing with contentment as he tangles his legs with Bernd’s, bringing them as close as possible. Bernd’s still naked from the night before, radiating warmth and comfort, and if it weren’t for the fact that they’ve got a hectic day ahead of them, Marc would’ve been perfectly fine with just spending the whole day in bed, snuggling, dozing, trading soft kisses and lazy handjobs.

A pair of lips presses against the side of Marc’s neck in a way that can’t be considered exclusively accidental.

“Mmmm, Marc…” Bernd mumbles sleepily and rubs his foot up and down Marc’s leg.

“You awake?”

“Barely.”

“It’s okay. We’ve still got a few minutes.”

Bernd mutters something unintelligible and starts nuzzling the underside of Marc’s jaw.

“Do you know which day it is?” Marc asks, tracing his fingertips along the scar again.

“Sunday.”

“I know it’s Sunday, I meant the date.”

Bernd moves down to rub his face against the side of Marc’s neck, making kitten-like sleepy noises. “Our anniversary.”

Marc snorts. “It’s the anniversary of your injury, not our relationship.”

“Makes no difference to me,” Bernd says, and the feeling of lips moving against his neck is slowly starting to send tingles down Marc’s spine. “Those are the same days in my mind.”

Marc frowns. “For real?”

“Yeah? We spent more or less every hour together after you crashed into me anyway. I caught myself thinking ‘is this what a relationship looks like’ already on day one, when you came to bring me snacks and a toothbrush at the hospital.”

“Doesn’t make it one.”

“But it turned into one.”

Bernd ends the conversation quite effectively then, pushing himself up and grabbing Marc’s nape with his scarred hand, pulling him close for a hard, rough kiss. While he does know how to be soft and gentle, Bernd sure has a tendency to add his teeth, scraping them over Marc’s lips and pulling at the lower.

Marc shivers.

Clearly, it’s not too early in the morning for that.

Bernd shifts under the duvet, crawling on top of Marc without breaking the kiss, settling nicely in his lap so that they’re only separated by the thin fabric of Marc’s boxers. With slow, lazy rolls of his hips he starts to move, sitting up slightly to run his hands up and down Marc’s chest, and Marc shivers again as the cool air in the room hits his sleep-warm skin.

Bernd grins against his lips and digs his blunt nails into Marc’s chest, causing Marc to hiss.

“God, Bernd, we don’t have time–”

“We do if you just work with me here,” Bernd counters, low and husky, and slips his hands down to the waistband of Marc’s boxers.

Fuck it.

Marc raises his hips just enough for Bernd to pull the boxers down to his thighs, and bites his lip as Bernd lowers himself down so that they’re pressed flush against each other, skin against skin. Marc’s breath hitches, but Bernd just grabs his cheeks and kisses him again, deeper and more intense, starting to grind down with intent.

“Fuck,” Bernd groans, scraping his teeth over Marc’s lip again, “I can’t _wait_ to do this every morning.”

“ _Every_ morning?” Marc asks, breathless, grabbing Bernd’s thighs, digging his fingers in, bringing them closer. “That has to be the long distance talking, I doubt either of us will be able to keep up with that.”

“You wanna bet?” Bernd grins, slipping a hand down between them to take hold of them both. Marc bucks up by sheer reflex, his eyes falling shut, lips parting in a silent moan. “Just think of how many years without sex I have to make up for.”

The contrast to less than a year ago couldn’t be greater. Bernd had been lacking in everything but enthusiasm, being as inexperienced as someone who’d never even had a one-night stand could be: awkward, clumsy and uncharacteristically shy, not quite sure how to handle himself. Not that Marc had been this extremely experienced counterpart who knew it all, but the difference between some experience and next to none had sure been noticeable. He can’t say it had bothered him, though, and a relationship is all about working it out together, figuring how they fit. It doesn’t have to be perfect from the very beginning.

Now, however…

“C’mon, Marc,” Bernd breathes against his lips. “One last fuck in your bed.”

“Because yours isn’t a hundred times better.”

“Of course it is, but think of our history with this one. We need to give it a proper goodbye.”

Marc throws his head back, failing to suppress his laughter.

“Plus, we’re both gonna be so exhausted by the end of today that there won’t be time for sex then.”

“Like we need to have sex every day.”

“Well, like I said…” Bernd raises his eyebrows and runs his tongue over his lower lip, circling his hips, and fuck, if that isn’t a hot look on him – flushed, turned on and self-confident, knowing exactly what he wants and not afraid to demand it.

“As long as you’re quick about it,” Marc says as he reaches for the lube in the bedside table drawer. “We don’t have all day, we have to be effective.”

“Copy that,” Bernd says, flicking open the bottle, squeezing some out and covering them both, before starting to jerk them off properly. Marc falls back on the bed and takes hold of Bernd’s thighs again, responding as best he can to Bernd’s frantic movements and hectic kisses.

Now, it’s like the clumsiness, awkwardness and shyness from a little less than a year ago were never there in the first place. Bernd knows what he’s doing and he does it _good_ , whether it’s desperate _fuck I’ve missed you so much and I can’t be close enough to you right now_ sex, which is so easy to fall into every time they have the chance to meet during their busy schedules; or slow, gentle, burning _I love you_ sex, which is practically unavoidable when they have to separate again for God knows how long, or the kind of fun, sweet _could be awkward but isn’t_ sex, which is really more jokes and giggles and _shit, I came too soon_ than anything else.

Or rapid, intense quickies like right now, where they barely have the time to start before it’s over.

Bernd moans out loud and Marc opens his eyes just in time to see his boyfriend throw his head back, suck his lip into his mouth because he knows they have to keep it down, and quicken the pace of his hand.

“C’mon, Marc,” Bernd breathes out, voice hoarse. “Come, help me out here.”

Marc suppresses a moan of his own, shoves one hand over Bernd’s and grabs one of Bernd’s buttocks with the other, forcing him to speed up. Bernd lets out a sigh of relief, looking down at Marc through hooded eyes and sending him a wolfish grin as he touches Marc _just right_ , tightening his grip and flicking a finger against the hypersensitive underside of Marc’s cock, and Marc arches his back as his whole body tenses.

“Bernd, fuck, _fuck_ …”

Loud banging on the door.

“Hey, boys!” Howie calls from the other side, his soft accent colouring the words. “You up yet?”

And Marc wants to hold back, he really does, and he _tries_ to, not just because they’re interrupted but because it’s so much better to come together when they’re pressed against each other like they are now, but Bernd won’t stop his movements, and he’s still watching Marc with that hungry look on his face, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he _does_ , and then Marc can’t take it anymore.

“Coming!” he calls out, just before he does, bucking into Bernd’s hand, moaning against the scarred hand Bernd presses to his mouth to keep his noises down. Bernd grins and bends down, licks and bites across the soft skin of Marc’s neck, only adding to the aftershocks pulsing through Marc’s body.

“Then you better move it, because we won’t help you without breakfast first!” Howie calls back, then leaves.

Bernd chuckles, and Marc throws an arm over his eyes with a groan.

“Oh God, Marc,” Bernd grins against Marc’s mouth and presses his lips to it one last time, trying to suppress his laughter. “Is there anything in this world that can bring you out of the mood?”

“Oh, shush it,” Marc growls back, wiping his hand on the sheets they were going to throw in the laundry basket anyway. “I was already coming, you dick.”

“So was I,” Bernd counters as he too wipes off his hand.

“We’ll see who’s talking when I’ve brought you back into the mood.”

“Yeah, right.” Bernd rolls his eyes and gets out of bed, reaching for his boxers and putting them on, no longer visibly hard.

“Don’t you take my word for it?” Marc asks, pulling up his own underwear and swinging his legs over the edge.

“Nope.”

“That’s only because you don’t know what good boyfriends get on anniversaries,” he says and reaches for Bernd, pulling him in close by flinging both arms around his waist, and presses open-mouthed kisses to just above his waistband.

“And what’s that?” Bernd asks, raising an eyebrow as their eyes meet.

“Boyfriend treatment in the shower…” Marc begins and flicks his tongue over his lower lip. Bernd’s eyes darken just as he looks away to hide the fact that they do.

“Not interested,” Bernd says, trying to keep his voice even. “Used to it, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it.”

“… blowjob style,” Marc finishes and moves his open mouth further down, letting out a blow of warm air. Bernd draws a sharp breath and fists his hand into Marc’s hair.

“As long as you’re quick about it,” Bernd says as their eyes meet again, the hunger fully back in both his voice and gaze.

“Oh, I can be quick,” Marc returns with a wink and reaches for Bernd’s hand.

~*~

Organised and structured as he is, Marc had packed all his remaining things into bags and boxes before Bernd arrived the night before. It was Bernd who insisted they carry it all out in the car later, and what was the point of cleaning the room when they still had to spend another night there?

Marc had only half-heartedly tried to protest, because Bernd did have a point, and when Bernd offered to cook for all four of them, Marc didn’t want to spoil the joy for his flatmates. After all, they wouldn’t be able to appreciate Bernd’s cooking every day from now on like Marc would. Then Bernd had insisted that they say goodbye to the sofa properly by setting up a fort, showering it in popcorn and watching a couple of films, convincing Howie and Tony to join in as well, and they didn’t have to be asked twice.

Not that Marc had complained when he’d found himself squeezed between his best friends, his hand linked with Bernd’s over the backrest of the sofa, Howie’s legs stretched out across his lap and Tony and Bernd play fighting over the popcorn. This was how it was meant to be, chilling on the sofa with his mates, his boyfriend, plenty of snacks and a couple of action films, not a care in the world and no assignments or other university stuff to stress over. Safe, warm, comfortable.

That’s when it had first hit him what moving out really meant – _leaving_. Leaving Tony and Howie behind after so many years, leaving the flat they’ve made into what feels like a proper home, leaving his home state, leaving life as he knew it, going from being a young and thriving student to a grown man with a proper job and grown-up life.

Involuntarily, he’d squeezed Bernd’s hand, and Bernd had squeezed right back, rubbing his thumb up and down one of Marc’s fingers.

By the time they’d finished both films, the beer and the popcorn, it had been so late that Bernd had complained about being tired after the long drive, so instead of finishing packing right then and there, Howie and Tony had promised to help out in exchange for pancakes for breakfast, to which Bernd had agreed without second thought.

But Marc can’t find it in him to complain when they’re all gathered around the kitchen table after an amazing shower, joking and laughing and munching on pancakes like the schoolboys they once were. Tony’s licking strawberry jam off the corners of his mouth, Howie’s lips and tongue are covered in purple from the blueberries, and Bernd tastes sweet when he presses a kiss to Marc’s lips and lets him have the last pancake.

They’re not done cleaning Marc’s bedroom and his shelves in the fridge, the cupboards and the bathroom before it’s nearing noon, and Marc’s planned schedule has been messed up completely.

“Re _lax_ , Marc,” Bernd says, picking up a bag and loading into his BMW. “We’ve got the whole day, what’s there to stress about?”

“Just thought it’d be nice to have some time together before bedtime.”

“We’ll have the whole day together!”

“I meant to chill in front of the television tonight.”

“The drive isn’t _that_ long.”

“You never know with the autobahn. And just think of how busy we’ll be from tomorrow on.”

Howie and Tony both snort. Bernd shakes his head with a knowing smile.

“Are you sure you know what you’re letting yourself in on, Leno?” Tony asks.

Bernd grins as he loads the last bag into the car. “You’re forgetting that I came to know Marc by _living_ with him, not by an x number of dates where he presented only his good sides and qualities. Trust me, when his constant worrying, slight obsessive tidiness, structure or even mother hen tendencies didn’t put me off, nothing will.”

“Oh, don’t come here a year later and pretend you didn’t enjoy it,” Marc protests. “Or at least appreciated it.”

Bernd sends him a smile meant only for him and reaches for a box.

“And for the record, I’m not _that_ bad,” Marc adds.

Bernd, Tony and Howie let out a collective snort of a laugh.

“Yeah, and I’ve outplayed Neuer for the spot as Germany’s number one.” Bernd.

“And I’m secretly the crown prince of Norway.” Howie.

“Honestly, Marc, the only time I’ve ever experienced you organised and structured on the level of an _ordinary_ person, was those two weeks last year from Bernd left and until he came back again,” Tony says. “Which means that by your standards, you were a _mess_.”

“You all suck,” Marc mutters, to Howie and Tony’s amusement; Bernd just wriggles his eyebrows, that shit. “And I’ll have you know that these are great qualities which will pay off big time when I start teaching a bunch of kids.”

“We’re not saying it’s bad,” Bernd says and wraps his arms around Marc’s shoulders from behind. “It’s just a fact that those are very characteristic qualities of yours.”

“Allow me to repeat myself,” Tony says, raising an eyebrow at Bernd. “Are you sure you know what you’re letting yourself in on?”

“Oh, just admit it already, Jantschke: you’re just jealous I’m taking this fine specimen away from your flat, because you know it’s going to be a mess without him,” Bernd counters and presses a kiss to Marc’s cheek, putting an effective end to the discussion before he turns back to the boxes. Marc practically beams at his flatmates.

“Suck on that,” he says and crosses his arms in front of his chest with a self-satisfied grin.

“We’ll manage just fine without you,” Tony counters and does the same. “Won’t we, Howie?” he adds, nudging Howie with his shoulder.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Marc finishes, and Bernd emphasises the scepticism in his voice with a snort.

“But jokes aside,” Howie says, “moving in with each other, that’s a huge deal. That’s basically married already.”

“No, it isn’t,” Bernd and Marc respond in unison.

“Oh, but it is! A flat with only the two of you, only your names on the mailbox, sharing the expenses, sharing the bedroom, sharing the meals, sharing the chores, going to bed together, waking up together, coordinating your schedules… How is that any different from being married?”

“We won’t have to take each other’s surnames.”

“Thank fuck,” Bernd mumbles from the sideline. Marc rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but apart from that. You’ll be each other’s closest relatives and all, won’t you? For emergencies and stuff?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t talked about that yet.”

“I’ve had Marc as my emergency contact for a year already,” Bernd says with a shrug as he loads the next box into the car, his tone flat.

The other three turn to stare at him.

“What?” Tony.

“That is too cute.” Howie.

“You _have_?” Marc bursts out, convinced that he must’ve heard wrong.

“Yeah.” Bernd loads another box.

“ _How_?”

“Couldn’t exactly give them the contact info of my parents back then, could I?”

“But we didn’t know each other. You didn’t even _have_ my contact information.”

“Oh, please. I had your weirdass first name and phone number. You don’t need more to find the surname, and you don’t need more than that to list an emergency contact.”

Marc stares at Bernd, then at Howie and Tony who are also staring at Bernd like he’s crazy.

“Dude, he could’ve been a serial killer,” Tony says.

Bernd snorts.

“Or some drug lord,” Howie adds.

“Or _both_.”

“Plus a pimp.”

Bernd just laughs. “Boys, this is _Marc_ we’re talking about. He couldn’t’ve been any of those things, even if he wanted to.”

“Hey!” Marc protests.

“Still, though, you had no way of knowing,” Tony tries to reason.

Bernd just shrugs again. “I took my chances.”

“But you told me,” Marc says. “I asked you who you listed and you told me you listed your brother. You lied to me.”

“So?” Bernd doesn’t seem affected in the slightest. “I also said I wasn’t gay, so you should know that the infos I gave you back then can’t be considered exclusively trustworthy.” He pauses for a moment. “Though now that I think of it, if you consider how many people mistook us for brothers, maybe you should’ve taken the hint.”

Tony and Howie laugh again, but Marc just stares at his boyfriend with his mouth open, gears turning in his head, trying to process the fact that Bernd’s actually trusted him _this much_ since the very beginning, while also going back to one year ago to recall some of the things they talked and joked and play fought about.

“You’d marry Margaery for Loras,” Marc finally says – it’s weak, but it’s the best he can come up with in the heat of the moment. “Just like I pointed out.”

“Maybe.”

“And you’d fuck Jaime.”

Now Bernd laughs as well. “He’s tall, blonde and handsome. Of _course_ I’d fuck Jaime.”

Then he winks at Marc, and lifts the last box into the car.

Tony and Howie whistle.

“You’re such an arse,” Marc mutters and punches Bernd’s shoulder.

“You learn a trick or two when you spend too much time in the closet,” Bernd counters and holds out his hand for some last bro-shakes and pats on the back with Tony and Howie. “Been great getting to know you two messed up bastards.”

“Takes one to know one,” Tony responds and shoves Bernd off.

Bernd shoves Tony back and turns to Howie, pulling him close.

“Take care of Marc for us.”

“We’ll see who ends up taking care of the other,” Bernd responds, making Marc’s now former flatmates grin, and turns towards the passenger side of the car. “You coming, Marc?”

Marc nods. “Sure, just give me a second.”

Now that he’s standing here, ready to give up his key and leave the flat and his friends for the last time, it all comes crashing down on him in one single moment and the melancholy hits him full force. All the ups and downs they’ve had here with assignment deadlines, coming home from bad days at work, parties, football – which is a whole chapter in and of itself –, good grades, bad grades, power failures, pets and grandparents passing away, spending Sundays crashed out on the sofa watching TV from noon until bedtime…

He loves Bernd, no doubt about it, and he can’t wait to finally live with him again, can’t wait to start their _life_ together for real, but _Christ_ , he’s going to miss his flatmates and the camaraderie between the three of them.

“Come here,” he says and spreads his arms, pulling them both into a bone-crushing hug, refusing to let go. “Fuck, I’m going to miss you two so much.”

“You’re moving in with your _boyfriend_ , Marc, you’re gonna be fine,” Howie says.

“And it’s not like we won’t stay in touch,” Tony adds.

“Still, though,” Marc says as he pulls away and starts fishing for his key. “It’s not the same as living together.”

“Living alone with Bernd is going to be so much better, just wait and see. The next time you come back for a visit, you’re going to praise yourself lucky that you won’t have to deal with us on a daily basis ever again.”

“Oh, stop it,” Marc groans and shoves at Tony’s shoulder, before pulling both him and Howie close again. “And do be nice to Yann. You don’t want to scare him away on day one.”

Yann.

After a bit of searching, he, Tony and Howie had finally found a bloke who seemed perfect to take over Marc’s room, furniture and all – Yann Sommer, a Swiss moving to Düsseldorf to work. Marc knew it wasn’t his responsibility anymore, not really, but he didn’t want his flatmates to be stuck with some stuck-up arse after what the three of them have had. It’s bad enough that Marc’s moving after all these years of living together, breaking up their gang; it’d be even worse if they got a shitty new flatmate on top of that.

Yann’s moving in the next day.

“Don’t worry, we’ll make him feel welcome.”

“He’s going to be just as sad as you when one of us has to move out.”

“Good,” Marc says, brushing the back of his hand against his nose to cover up a sniff. This hard enough as it is, he can’t start _crying_ on top of it. Quickly, he shoves his keys into Howie’s hand – if he doesn’t do it now, he never will. “Here. Give Yann my best and tell him that he better treat my old room nicely.”

“Will do.”

He pulls them into one last, brief hug, headbutts them both gently before pulling away for good, heading for the driver’s side of Bernd’s BMW.

“Remember to check the gear before you start the car!” Tony calls.

“Yeah, unless you want _two_ boyfriends!” Howie adds.

Marc just gives them the finger; of _course_ they would ruin the beautiful moment they just shared.

He gets in the car and puts on the seatbelt by reflex, then pauses. Leans his head back against the headrest, taking a deep breath, blinking away a tear and covering up another sniff.

“You okay?” Bernd asks, looking almost worryingly over at him.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, sending Bernd a soft smile to reassure him. “Just… hadn’t expected that to be as hard as it was.”

“You know they can come visit whenever they want.”

“Yeah.”

“And we can come up here whenever we have a weekend available.”

Marc smiles again and looks down, reaching for Bernd’s left hand and entwining their fingers.

“I love you, do you know that?”

“Yeah.” Bernd squeezes his hand and Marc looks up just in time to see Bernd smile back at him. “I love you too.”

They meet each other halfway for a brief, soft kiss, then Bernd reaches into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out the keys – Marc’s _own_ keys, one for the car and one for the flat, a belated birthday gift which Bernd’s had made especially for today, complete with a Borussia key chain.

Marc grants himself a moment to admire it, touch it, run the tip of his finger over the black and white lozenge logo. Then he turns to Bernd again with a shit-eating grin.

“Are you sure you want me to drive? You know, with what happened almost precisely a year ago…”

“Oh, God…”

Bernd tries to disentangle his hand from Marc’s, but Marc just squeezes harder, bringing the wrist up to his mouth to press a kiss to Bernd’s scar.

“Just drive, you dork,” Bernd mutters, failing to cover up his amused smile as he shakes his head.

Marc lets go and starts the engine.

The car doesn’t leap.

~*~

In some way, it’s weird walking through the front door and stepping inside the hallway. For the first time, Marc’s not here as a visitor, he’s here because this is where he lives now, and it’s no longer just Bernd’s place, it’s _theirs_. It’s small, barely big enough for two persons even though they’re a couple, the shower only fits one person comfortably, there’s very limited closet space, there’s not enough room for a kitchen table and the bedroom is pretty much just a double bed and a bedside table.

But Marc couldn’t care less – after all the weekends he’s spent here, it’s started to feel like home already. It’s central and convenient, it’s high enough up to get a beautiful city view in the night, they can make due with fewer clothes because they’re so equal in size and body type, who cares about a small bedroom when the bed’s absolutely amazing, and why would they have a kitchen table when they always eat on the sofa in front of the television anyway?

Besides, anywhere Bernd is, is home now.

Bernd’s convinced Marc that takeaway is a great option when they’ve been on the road all day, and because the takeaway will get cold if they don’t start eating right away, Marc half-heartedly agrees that leaving the things in the car for one night isn’t going to kill him.

So, instead of stressing around for another few hours, they make themselves comfortable on their sofa with the food and some new fantasy show Bernd’s insisted that they watch, curling up against each other and tangling their feet together.

Quite by accident, Marc’s eyes fall on the digital clock of the TV, and a shiver runs down his spine when he recognises the exact time from inside his parents’ station wagon.

Once again, the moment flashes before his eyes – Bernd rushing towards the car park, the tense look on his face visible even from afar, Marc forgetting to check the gear before turning the key, the world coming to a halt as their eyes lock, the car jolting forward and grazing the back tyre of Bernd’s cousin’s bike. Marc just sits there gaping, rooted to the spot for one very long, painful second as Bernd hits the ground, before nearly ripping off the seatbelt, scrambling out of the car and rushing over to check on him, the image of him falling off the bike glued to Marc’s retina.

It still is, one year later, and now he’s sitting on _their_ sofa in _their_ flat with the same man curled up against him, both of them with the intention of spending the rest of their lives together.

Marc wraps his arm around Bernd’s shoulder and pulls him closer.

“Look,” he whispers in Bernd’s ear, nodding towards the clock. “It’s been exactly one year since we met.”

“Yeah,” Bernd whispers back as he too sees it, nuzzling Marc’s shoulder. “One year since I fell on the ground and fell for you.”

It’s uttered so flat and matter-of-factly that Marc needs a moment to not only register the words, but what they actually mean, and when he finally does, he bolts upright, gaping at Bernd. “Wait – hang on – _what_?”

Bernd just looks at him.

“You fell for me? Right away?”

Bernd looks back at the TV. “Wasn’t very hard.”

“How can _that_ be your response? I was a stranger who’d just run you over, the proper reaction would be something along the lines of _what the fuck_ , followed by _fuck you_.”

“So?” Bernd says with a shrug. “How you deal with your own mistakes and treat injured strangers can tell you quite a lot about a person.”

“So the whole time you were staying with me…? You…?”

“… yeah. Don’t think I realised it at the time, but yeah.” Then Bernd frowns. “C’mon, Marc, do you really think I would’ve agreed to stay with you for weeks if I disliked you as much as I pretended to?”

“Yes? Maybe? Or maybe not, I don’t know.”

“True, you with your over-trusting tendencies probably would, but me? I sure as hell wouldn’t, not even if you paid me.”

Marc stares for a moment longer, then he grabs Bernd by the cheeks and pulls him into a hard, intense kiss.

“God, Bernd, you never fail to amaze me.”

Bernd just grins against his lips and makes himself comfortable again, snuggling against Marc, resting his head on Marc’s shoulder, humming with contentment as Marc presses a kiss to his temple and breathes him in.

 _His_ Bernd, Marc thinks, and reaches for Bernd’s hand, running his thumb over the thick, red line on his wrist – a symbol of an event and a moment that will forever connect them, more so than any vow or wedding ring. Marc brings it up and presses his lips to it, focusing on all the joy that ragged scar has given them, rather than the uncomfortable, painful moment of watching Bernd fall to the ground.

 _His_ Bernd, Marc thinks again, smiling to himself as he wraps his arms tight around his boyfriend.

Who would’ve thought that he’d fall, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for following this fic and all the fantastic feedback you’ve given me <3 It’s one of the stories I’m most proud of, so I’m very grateful that so many have followed it and enjoyed it.
> 
> The song which the title is taken from can be heard [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4g4z92FkRpI), and even if you don’t understand the lyrics, it’s well worth it – the melody really fits the mood, the pace and the emotions of the story.
> 
> And just in case you don’t follow me or don’t know that it exists: I made a moodboard which you can find [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/tyskerunge/178251652165), and of course, feel free to contact me on tumblr anytime!


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